Hogwarts, A History Revised
by Scutie-Naos
Summary: On her first day of school, Hermione stumbles across a very interesting book. It's a copy of Hogwarts A History, except this version is narrated by Hogwarts itself!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own the story or the cover art. I just added the text for the cover art.**

 **Warning: Future Godric/Salazar slash. (Bc I couldn't not. :))**

* * *

Prologue:

This Is Not the Book You're Looking For

Hermione Granger was late to class the day she found it.

On the first day of her first year at Hogwarts, she stuffed all her books and supplies into her bag and rushed out the door, so eager she was to get to her classes. She never bothered to look at the titles as she shoved them into the drab canvas. So maybe she shouldn't have been so surprised after all when she pulled out what she thought was _Hogwarts a History_ in Professor Binn's class, and found a similar, yet entirely different title staring back at her.

 _Hogwarts, a History Revised._ Where the author's name was supposed to be, it simply stated: _A Memoir._

' _Hogwarts a History Revised?'_ Hermione thought. _This isn't my book. And whose memoir is it? Surely not Hogwarts's; buildings can't write books._ Unbeknownst to Hermione, if she had uttered that last sentence aloud, the stones at her feet would have commenced in silent snickering.

She opened to the first page and almost gave a small gasp of surprise when she read the paragraph waiting for her there:

 _Many people wonder when exactly I was created. There are many theories, but none of them are correct. You see, when people ask about the origin of Hogwarts, they are thinking about a physical being. They are thinking about my body, not my soul._

Fortunately, she was too shell shocked to gasp. Every single brain cell she possessed was screaming at her to keep reading, and quite a few of the cells making up her heart as well. All those tiny molecules telling her to continue formed a longing to lose herself in the pages of a different world so great, it seemed to physically squeeze her chest in a vice, leaving her quite unable to draw breath. But with a heroic feat of willpower, she slammed the book shut and crammed it into her messenger bag - more carefully this time. She then picked up her quill and tried to pay attention, the very picture of a studious child diligently taking notes. She did her best not to appear shaken, or as if her brain were spinning so fast it surpassed all it's speed limits. She did her best to appear perfectly normal for the rest of the day. How well she succeeded, well, that depends on your definition of normal.

ᐧ ᐧ

In the dark of night, Hermione reached under her pillow with shaking fingers, pulling out her wand, and the book.

Her bag had felt as though it contained the weight of the sky all day, and it wasn't from all the heavy textbooks. It was from the knowledge that she carried _this_ book.

Her real history book had been innocently waiting for her on her bed when she returned to her room. She'd wanted to start reading immediately, but Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were there. Hermione felt this odd instinct that she had to keep Hogwart's memoir a complete secret, or else… Or else something. Something would surely happen, and Hermione wasn't inclined to find out what.

But now, after nearly twelve hours of waiting, she could finally mine this book's pages for it's secrets. For those sparkling little gems of enlightenment.

" _Lumos."_ Soft white wand light fell across the bed before becoming trapped by the dense curtains. It revealed the book's fresh, deep red, paperback cover with gold lettering. It's pages were jagged and uneven. It looked like a novel someone without enough funds to do a good job had tried to self publish.

Hermione took a steadying breath and, cracking the cover, turned to book to it's first page.

 _Many people wonder when exactly I was created. There are many theories, but none of them are correct. You see, when people ask about the origin of Hogwarts, they are thinking about a physical being. They are thinking about my body, not my soul._

 _Nobody knows that my sentient spirit was around years before my creators were anywhere near close to creating my host. I couldn't communicate in any way, and I couldn't see as you do. I could barely even comprehend the events going on around me. But I still have the memories of those first moments of my existence, as clear as if they were yesterday…_


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay. Updates on this story are going to be inconsistent at best, and downright torturous in their inconsistency and lengthy waiting periods at most. But I'll try to make up for that in length and quality. Also, I edited this all myself, so there definitely will be bugs. And I'd love to hear from you: Do you think I made Hermione's reaction too... thoughtful? I know that sounds like a huge oxymoron, but... yeah. I'll shut up now. :) Enjoy!**

Chapter One: 

The Origins of Hogwarts.

It was Helga's idea.

"Do you guys know what next week is?" The others looked up from their dinners just long enough to give her a blank stare.

"Um…" Godric mumbled through a mouthful of baked potato. "No." Helga sighed in exasperation and said,

"It's the first year anniversary of the day we met."

"Mmm hmm," Salazar muttered, looking more interested in his cooked rabbit than the conversation. "So?"

"So we should do something special!" The other three founders all glanced at each other.

"Like, what?" Rowena asked.

"We should give each other presents!" Helga said brightly. "Me, Sal and Rowena would get Godric something. Rowena Godric and me would find something for Salazar. Then the boys and I would find something for Rowena!"

"What about you?" Salazar asked.

"Oh don't worry about me," Helga said as she waved the comment off. "I don't need anything other than your happiness." This idea was immediately met with extravagant rejection as her friends insisted that that wasn't fair, and they were getting her a gift whether she wanted it or not. She rewarded them all with a beaming smile.

Thus it was decided that the founders of Hogwarts would mark the anniversary of their friendship with an exchanging of gifts.

ᐧOᐧ

The next week was filled with one adventure after another as the founders travelled all over Europe searching for the perfect gifts.

The first three were easy to find. In theory, not practice. Helga had already picked out their gifts for them during their travels. All they had to do was retrace their steps and pick them up. Unfortunately, they were almost impossible to get.

For Godric, they stole a shining, red-jewelled sword from a goblin king by the name of Ragnuck. Have you ever been chased by an angry horde of goblins? It's not fun.

The founders never considered that their actions might have devastating effects on goblin/wizard relationships for thousands of years to come. Back then, they were only sixteen. They were young, rash and foolish, full of the unbound joy of youth.

For Rowena, they travelled to Greece, and found a silver diadem with sparkling clear-cut crystal jewels in a temple to the gods, left as an offering at Athena's feet.

For Salazar, they raided the treasure horde of a dragon, (barely escaping with their lives.) and collected the lockett of a long dead queen.

The first three were easy, and once they had them, the founders spent the remainder of that week bettering their gifts. They inscribed messages, placed enchantments, polished and shined to increase the artifacts' splendor. But all throughout that week, Rowena Godric and Salazar were racking their brains, trying to think of a gift for Helga. Eventually, the day before their anniversary rolled around, and they still had no idea what to get her.

"What are we going to do!?" Godric whisper-cried in dismay.

"Stop panicking and think!" Rowena snapped.

"Think. Think," Salazar muttered. "What items represent Helga?"

"A cornucopia?" Godric asked. "She's all into generosity and giving."

"Oh that's just perfect. We're going to get her a woven basket of effing fruit, when we got you a go-" Rowena cut off abruptly, and resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Each of them knew about everyone's present except for their own, which meant none of them could talk about _any_ of the presents. As you can imagine, this lead to some terrible breakdowns in communication. "You both know she made sure our gifts are going to be way awesomer than a magical basket of unlimited fruit." The boys nodded in agreement. "So we need to get her something at least as amazing and awesome as what she got for us."

"But what!?" Salazar cried.

"Shhhh!" the others hushed, glancing nervously at the tent where Helga was sleeping.

"But what?" he whispered. "How do we get her something as awesome as a- a…" He trailed off, remembering not to go into specifics. "As something really awesome," he finished lamely.

"Aaaauuuugggghh." Godric whisper-screamed, banging his head repeatedly against a tree trunk with levels of contained self punishment a house elf would have envied.

ᐧOᐧ

The next morning, when Helga stepped out of the tent eager to make a delicious breakfast and commence with the exchanging of gifts, she found nothing but a note.

Helga,

We've gone to get your present, hopefully we'll be back by lunch. _-It might take a little longer than that though.-_ Stop interrupting Salazar, let me write. _-Why do you get to write?-_ Because I have the best handwriting. The snakes are guarding the campsite, and can recognise you on site. _-Smell.-_ Shut up. See if you can find any potions ingredients in the woods, or in town. Just try not to get lost, kidnapped, injured, amnesia-fied, or in any kind of trouble before we get back.

~Love,

Rowena, _Salazar_ _,_ **and Godric.**

Helga put a cauldron on to boil, (For a potion or a soup, whichever was needed first.) ate her breakfast, and wandered out of the campsite. She greeted the snakes and fed them chunks of rabbit meat. Then she went out looking for whatever fate might wish her to find.

ᐧOᐧ

She spent that morning wandering the woods, and by the end of it she'd collected two bushels of herbs, (Purple basil, chervil, marjoram, sage, etc.) a basket full of berries, three feathers suitable for becoming quills, a pretty rock, an owl's pellet, and a very sick badger. She took the badger with her back to camp. She'd nurse it back to health and release it into the wild.

She then threw the wild roots and nuts into the cauldron with some venison. Half an hour, a few more ingredients, and some wand work later, and a tantalising stew bubbled before her. The smell permeated the small glade and caused the badger to drool.

Helga passed her time sipping stew and trying to make friends with Bobbie, (The badger.) who hissed and spat every time she came close. (Helga couldn't blame him, he had quite a nasty cut on one if his hind legs, which was undoubtedly infected.) The whole time she did so, she kept glancing at the sky, searching for a sign of her friends. Helga wasn't too worried yet though, things almost never went according to plan when they went adventuring. Her friends would be back soon. In the meantime, she might pay a visit to the local muggle village…

ᐧOᐧ

The grapevine travels fast in a small town. This meant that within five minutes of her arrival, everyone knew about the oddly dressed woman with the kindly smile, who was pushing a cauldron full of soup down the main street while a bandaged badger limped behind her.

The villagers approached cautiously at first. But any doubt or suspicions they had were soon warmed by the woman's cheerful disposition and her free bowls of venison stew.

She told them her name was Helga, and she was a travelling Apothecary, seeking to do good and help people. In a small town like this one, a visiting Apothecary was like a travelling circus. The villagers greeted her arrival with enthusiasm, and began trading with her for small healing poultices and potions at absurdly low prices. A potato for cough syrup, a brocaded handkerchief for cream to cure warts. She didn't always trade for material items. Usually a smile, a scrap of poetry, or a promise to help someone in need was enough for Helga.

The most expensive trade was with the unofficial mayor of the town, who gave her a cracked moonstone for a charm to ward off vampires. Helga gave it happily. She handed him a perfectly ordinary cross while casting protection wards on the town with her wand when he was looking the other way.

When she had nothing left to give, the villagers decided to make the rest of the day an unofficial festival day. They brought out food and drink, erected a maypole, and started playing instruments while others danced around it. Soon the streets were filled with the cheerful noises of happy people, people who were dancing, laughing, and singing. Helga sat amongst all the cheer she had caused and beamed at everyone. Even Bobbie seemed more upbeat.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Helga alternated between dancing, singing, and spinning stories of her travels with her friends; which made the children clustered at her feet go wide eyed in fear, astonishment, and awe. She didn't mention she was a witch, of course. In fact, if the townspeople noticed anything strange about Helga at all, (Other than her clothes and her badger.) it was that she kept glancing at the sky expectantly, as though she were waiting for something…

ᐧOᐧ

Back at the camp, with the sun just beginning to dip towards the horizon, Helga paced in circles furiously.

Where _where_ they!? They'd been gone for nearly ten hours! This was not, 'a little longer' than lunchtime. This was more than six hours worth of lateness!

But there was nothing she could do, was there? If she tried going out to find them, she'd most likely miss their return or get lost. No, she had to stay put. She had to trust that her friends would return before the day ran out.

...Where _were_ they!?

ᐧOᐧ

"AAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH-" CRASH!

Helga flung aside the tent flap to find her friends in a tangled, smoking mess. The ends of their broomsticks, nothing more than a few charred twigs now, glowed bright as fireflies in the twilight. Bobbie the badger ran into the tent chattering with fright, then ran back out to defend Helga's ankles with a series of growls and barks. Then he ran back inside again.

"Hi Helga," Salazar greeted, managing a weak smile as he detangled himself from his broom.

"Did you miss us?" Godric asked with his, 'that-was-so-totally-effing-AWESOME-let's-do- that-again!' grin. Rowena just collapsed on the ground and rolled on her back with a groan, raising a limp hand in greeting.

"Hiiiiiii…"

"Where WERE you guys!?" Helga yelled.

"We were getting your present!" Godric replied cheerfully right as Salazar said,

"It's a long story." Rowena just groaned something that might have been, "Stupid flaming kelpies."

"Allow me to rephrase that statement," Helga corrected. "What HAPPENED to you guys!?"

"Well…" Salazar muttered, while Godric started babbling about cups and magical ponds and old family connections; and Rowena mumbled, "I _hate_ kelpies."

"Godric," Helga said, "You are making no sense whatsoever. Could you try telling me what happened in coherent sentences?" Salazar, too exhausted to continue standing, joined Rowena on the ground, trying to help her sit up straight. The result of this was Rowena clinging to his neck and putting her entire weight on his shoulders. Then she fell into a coma like state as a result of fatigue. Salazar bore the treatment without complaint.

"Well we were up for half the night trying to figure out what to get you, right? Then Rowena remembered that her mother knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a witch who knows a centaur who knows-"

"Godric," Salazar said with weary exasperation. "Keep it short."

"Short. Right. Sorry. So anyway, through a long series of connections, we found a magical pond with epic healing powers. There was a guardian there guarding it-"

"Shocking," Salazar muttered.

"-and he told us that none may drink from the pond who did not prove they were doing so without selfish intent. We told him we didn't want to drink from the pond, we just wanted whatever he used to take the water _out_ of the pond. That made him angry, because he said the cup he used had soaked up enough magic over the years to be almost as powerful as the water itself. We were all like: That's great! Can we have it? And he was all like: No, you must pass my trials first! So we had to go through a bunch of tasks to prove our worth, which would have been fine if he hadn't mixed us all up. I ended up trying to convince a Leprechaun it was a good idea to give me his gold; Sal had to answer riddles from a Sphynx, and Rowena faced a pack of fully grown Blast Ended Skrewts. And that was just the _first_ round! You should have _seen_ what the guy had for us during the third round-"

"Godric," Salazar interrupted. "Keep it short."

"Right. Short. Anyway, we eventually passed the trials." Salazar coughed. "Actually, we failed the trials spectacularly and barely escaped with our lives. But after a sincere explanation to the guardian guy about how we needed this cup as a gift to our friend, he decided to give us the cup anyway.

"So, after a few minor inconveniences on the way back-"

"God. Damned. Flaming. Kelpies," Rowena wheezed. "Fucking. Demon. Spawn. From. _Hell._ "

"-and a few enhancing enchantments, we threw in a badger engraving and got you… this!" Godric exclaimed, reaching into the pocket of his robes with a flourish. Then he froze, his face going deathly pale. "Oh my God," he muttered. "Guys. _Where's the cup!?_ "

"You LOST it!?" Salazar shouted.

"No I didn't!" Godric said defensively. "It's just- I don't- It WAS in my pocket!"

"Oh my God," Salazar muttered, staring numbly at the dying fire, which shed little light over the group, as dark had fallen during Godric's tale. "Oh my fucking God. You have _got_ to be _kidding_ me. We lost the cup." At this, Rowena issued a zombie like groan and flopped off of her adopted pillar of support. She then climbed shakily to her feet and, while muttering, "I am _surrounded_ by idiots," reached into her pocket and brought out the soon-to-be cup of Helga Hufflepuff.

"THANK MERLIN!" Godric screamed as he grabbed the cup and squeezed Rowena into a hug that left her feet dangling twelve inches off the ground.

"Thank Merlin," Salazar echoed, burying his face in his hands while his shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank Merlin and Morgana and all the Powers of the world." Godric commenced with holding the cup above his head like a torch while he hopped around the campfire chanting,

" _We - got - the - cup! We - got - the - cup! We - got - the - cup! We - got -_ " He looked like he was doing his interpretation of a bunny's victory dance. Rowena stood with her arms crossed, shaking her head, looking for all the world like the bossy, know it all nobel they knew she was. _Not_ like someone who a few mere seconds ago was clinging to her friend's neck just so she could stay upright. She strode forward and snatched the cup out of Godric's hand, saying,

"Give it here you oaf! Knowing our luck you'll break it right before we can give it to her!" Godric just laughed, too elated to be insulted. He knelt on the ground next to Salazar and cuddled him to his chest out of sheer joy, as though the protesting parselmouth were his favorite teddy bear. Rowena turned to Helga, presenting the cup to her with a smile.

Helga gingerly took the gift from her friend, turning it over in her hand. It was a tiny thing, the insides just big enough to hold a large egg. It gleamed gold in the light of the embers and the stars, though Helga imagined it would have a much tougher core than gold, something that would last for centuries to come. The metal was warm, as if it had been sitting on a mantlepiece over a blazing fire hearth; the silent guardian of a happy family's home. There were small engravings decorating the lip, stem, and base of the cup. This made the stem seem like wood, gave the lip a soothing texture, and the base had a swirling, petal-like pattern. But the most intricate carving was that of a badger on the face of the cup, one paw raised, looking over it's shoulder.

"It has magical healing properties and can cure almost any illness," Rowena explained. "It will mend cuts and bruises, broken bones, internal bleeding, you name it. Anything you would have recovered from naturally, given time. It can also palliate mental or emotional anguish. It will essentially give you whatever you need most to make you happy, whether it be a good memory, a clear mind, or a healed wound."

"I… I don't know what to say," Helga whispered. "You guys went through all that, to do this… for _me_?" The other founders glanced at each other, and in that moment they knew that all the veela evading, puzzle solving, and fireball throwing kelpie slaying had been _worth it_.

"Of course we did," Salazar said with a smile. (He was still being hugged by Godric, who had stopped squeezing him like he was an unbreakable stuffed animal and was now simply using as something to put his arms around. ((Notice how most of Salazar's friends seem to treat him like furniture whenever it suites them.))) "You're our best friend Helga, practically our family. We wanted to get you something as amazing and unselfishly clement as you are. If that meant we had to go through some crazy adventures to do that, well, we're hardly strangers to crazy adventures, are we?"

"You guys… You guys are the best friends anyone could ever ask for!" she exclaimed with a radiant smile and tears in her eyes. "I know I'm being sap, but you really are!" In response to this, Godric grinned and shouted,

"Group hug!" Then he pulled a protesting Rowena off her feet while simultaneously ignoring Salazar's complaints that they were all being overly dramatic and cheesy fools. Helga laughed and joined the dogpile of sappy friendship and fluffiness.

"I want each of you to be the first to drink from it," she said, once Rowena and Salazar had decided they'd had enough and had managed to claw their way free of the group hug. She handed the cup back to Rowena, who smiled and wished for it to fill with crystal clear bubbling liquid. It did so immediately, and she sipped it then handed it to Salazar, who passed it to Godric, who gave it back to Helga. When they had all drunk, they felt more united for some inexplicable reason. Their eyes gleamed and smiles wider than bridges curved across their faces.

"Hey Helga? Don't we get our gifts now?" Rowena ribbed Godric and said,

"Don't be so impertinent, you impatient-"

"You're right!" Helga exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "I'll be right back!" She dashed off into the woods and came back a few minutes later with a cloth bundle in her arms. She sat next to the fire, allowing Bobby to curl up in her lap, and unwrapped the bundle until a ruby encrusted hilt peeked out of the coarse wool. She then placed the sword of Godric Gryffindor in front of it's namesake.

"We got this from a Goblin King named Ragnuck, he wasn't too pleased to loose it. But since it's goblin made, it will never lose it's edge. It also repels dirt, absorbing only what will make it stronger, so you'll never have to clean it. You see how we engraved your name there, just under the hilt? That name binds the sword with an enchantment. It will never fail those with the right to wield it, and will always appear before them should they need it. The spell's cast so that the only ones who have the right to wield this blade are any who bear the name Gryffindor." Godric stared open mouthed at the gleaming blade. Hesitantly, he reached out and grasped the hilt, which fit as though it were molded just for him. He ran his hand along the blade, which should have sliced his thumb open, as it was razor sharp. But it didn't.

"That's…" He grinned and leapt to his feet, sword raised in the air above him, trying to slice the sky. "THAT IS SO COOL!" Godric ran to the edge of the clearing and swung his new weapon at a tree trunk. The blade sank halfway through the wood before it stopped. Godric yanked it out with a yell of triumph, and started alternating between running around the clearing doing his bunny rabbit victory dance, and slicing up innocent trees.

"Well, at least he likes his present," Helga chirped brightly.

"We should probably stop him before he chops up the whole clearing," Salazar mused.

"Good idea," Rowena said. " _Petrificus Totalus!_ " Godric froze mid leap and crashed to the ground, sword still clenched in his hand.

"Rowena!" Salazar caligated. "Don't do that! What if he'd landed on his sword!?"

"Oh he'd be fine, we've got Helga's cup to patch him up," Rowena said dismissively, thought she looked a little unsettled at the idea. She cast the counter charm and Godric crawled over to them, grinning like a maniac.

"Okay, okay I'm good. I'm good now. Thanks guys. This is _awesome_." Helga handed him the wool blanket containing the remaining gifts.

"Do you want to give Rowena her present next?"

"Sure!" Godric reached into the folds of fabric and brought out a glittering circlet of silver and crystal. "Rowena, we travelled to Greece to get you your present, and found this diadem blessed by Athena. It's magical powers increase the cognitive abilities of the wearer, clearing your mind, increasing intelligence, sharpening with and nurturing wisdom. We also carved your favorite saying onto it." Rowena held the delicate crown scrupulously, running a finger over the words shining under her gaze. _Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure._

"You got me a tiara." Godric's face fell dramatically. Helga's eyes widened at the horrifying prospect that Rowena might not like her gift. Salazar simply gave a small, patient smile.

"It's not a tiara," Godric fumbled. "It's a diadem!" Rowena's scowl did not lessen.

"Did you think that just because my dad is practically royalty I want a tiara?"

"We're sorry Rowena, we tried!" Helga said, sounding close to tears. "I was so sure you would like it, I-" She cut off abruptly as Rowena Ravenclaw put on her diadem, and graced them all with her knowing smile.

"I am _never_ taking this thing off." Helga laughed with relief. Godric socked her on the arm and said,

"You vicious scheming shrew!"

"I might be a vicious scheming shrew," Rowena said, posture perfect, head high, diadem glinting, more regal than ever. "But I am a vicious scheming shrew with a _crown_ , and you _will_ show appropriate levels of veneration."

"Fat chance!" Godric laughed.

"My turn," Rowena said, grabbing the wool blanket and shaking it out until the last gift fell to the ground. She placed the locket of Salazar Slytherin around it's rightful owner's neck, then sat back to let him examine it.

The locket was gold, and it was so chilly it almost seemed to burn Salazar's fingertips. It's doors divided the S made of tiny emeralds and jade stones and other green gems in half. It was about as large as a chicken egg, maybe just small enough to fit in Helga's cup. It rested in his palm perfectly.

"It's… pretty," he said weakly, because he wasn't sure what else to say. "But guys, correct me if I'm wrong. You got Godric a self sharpening, automatic cleaning weapon of death and destruction, and you got me _jewelry_." Godric started shaking with suppressed laughter. Rowena gave him her knowing smile and said,

"It's not _just_ jewelry. This particular piece of jewelry resided in a dragon's den for eons before we… liberated it."

"You guys robbed a _dragon's horde!?_ " Salazar hissed. "Do you _morons_ have a _death wish!?"_

"You know," Godric mused, " I don't think we haven't _not_ made any enemies on any one of these trips. We now have a dragon who wants to fry us, half a dozen dark creatures who hate us, some priests in Athens who want to sacrifice us, and a rather angry Goblin King."

"As I was saying," Rowena said in a tone that left the unsaid, _before I was so_ rudely _interrupted,_ perfectly legible. "This isn't just a locket. Have you ever heard of a pensieve?"

"It's a stone basin you can put memories in, right?"

"Exactly. Through a lot of long and complicated research, I managed to enchant this locket so it will act similar to a pensieve. Like Godric's gift, it will only work for those who bear the name Slytherin. Any Slytherin will be able to put any memory they want in this locket. They can also see all of the memories the locket already contains." Salazar's mouth formed a small _oh_ of surprise. He gazed down at his lockett, seeing it with a new perspective.

"It will keep an infinite number of memories… forever?"

"Forever."

Forever… such a trivial promise. A promise one simply can't keep, no matter how hard they might want or wish or try.

Salazar opened the locket, its tiny mirrors reflecting his dark eyes back at him. He closed them, and touched the tip of his index finger to his temple while exhaling softly. When he pulled his hand away, a silvery, stringy substance clung it it. He smeared the memory on the inside of each door, and it vanished. Then the mirrors started catching the starlight, reflecting it back, until gradually a miniature, misty, ethereal scene began to take form. It started playing, showing fleeting snapshots of the returning friends crashing their broomsticks, Godric's not-so-short explanation, Helga receiving her cup, Godric his sword, Rowena her diadem, until the memory played right up to the present moment, and faded away. Salazar gave each of his friends a soft smile and said,

"I wanted the first memory in this locket to be a happy one." Each of them smiled in return, the content silence of the best of friends settled over them like the wool blanket.

Until Godric announced, "I have an idea."

"Oh no. Godric has an idea. I'll start writing my will and testament." Godric pouted.

"You're so mean Sal. Not _all_ my ideas end up almost getting us killed. This one is actually really good. I'm one hundred percent sure it'll be perfectly safe. Well, ninety percent."

"Gee, I feel so much better now."

"We could do some kind of ritual," Godric continued. "Like, you wouldn't have to do it if you didn't want to, obviously, but…" He snatched each of their items, and started arranging them in a certain order. Helga's cup in Rowena's diadem, Salazar's locket in the cup. "If we were to use my sword to give each of us a small nick, and we let our blood drip into the cup while saying something meaningful, something magical might happen." Rowena rolled her eyes.

"Really Godric? _Something magical might happen? That's_ your reasoning for doing some sort of silly blood ritual?"

"Well, it might!?" Godric said defensively.

"I don't see why not," Salazar said thoughtfully. "What's the harm in trying? It's just some silly little ritual to commemorate the occasion."

"Let's go for it!" Helga chirped. Rowena huffed and shook her head.

"You're all crazy, but I'm in."

"Great!" Godric said.

ᐧOᐧ

Hufflepuff. "To us."

Gryffindor. "To Hogwarts."

Ravenclaw. "To the education of young wizards."

Slytherin. "To our future. A future in which we can guide the next generation of wizards. A future where together, we'll teach the values of wisdom, courage, and kindness, until the day we die.

ᐧOᐧ

What happened next is difficult to explain. If the four founders had been older and more experienced in the ways of magic, they should have known that they couldn't do something so monumental and get nothing. They would have expected something more than the physical reaction they got. They might have been able to sense the other presence that suddenly came into being, the newborn soul they forged with their faith and friendship…

But they were, as of yet, ignorant of such things.

All that appeared to happen was that when their bloods mingled in Helga's cup, it turned to liquid gold.

Helga took a tentative sip, and found the drink sweet and yet zingy, charged with energy or magic the way soda pop is full of bubbles.

"It tastes like honey!" she exclaimed with delight. The others laughed, because yes, it had seemed for just a moment in the stillness before the change, as if something big would happen, something life changing… But they shouldn't have expected such things. It was childish to hold out that kind of hope. Instead, they laughed, because, look what they had done! They had somehow, inexplicably, turned blood into some sort of nectar which tasted sweet and was filled to the brim with magic. They shared that nectar, and while their powers did seem more magnificent over the next few weeks, no other side effects appeared, and that was that. They thought nothing more of the matter for a long, long time...

ᐧOᐧ

That, dear reader, is how I was truly created. Not through complicated summonings. Not through tapping into any magical node. Not through ancient rituals or brewings of potions or chantings. Not through any of those things, but with the love of four great friends.

However, if my story started with the friendship of the founders, you must know the founders before you come to know me. Therefore, we will start by taking a closer look at each of our protagonists' pasts...

* * *

Hermione stared at the page. It was taunting her, inviting her to turn it. She stared and stared and stared, but she couldn't bring herself to summon the energy to do so. Her brain, for once, was numbed into a complete stupor.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a sentient object.

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a sentient object.  
_ The school had intelligence. It had a soul. It was aware of everything everyone was doing -of everything everyone had _ever_ done- inside it. And after a millennium of existence, it must have witnessed every kind of good and evil imaginable. It had to be the most mammoth collection of wisdom in the world. _It was even better than a library._ Think of the stories it could tell, if only it could talk.

But it _could_ talk now, couldn't it. That's what _this_ was. This book. It had finally found a way to tell its story, and it had chosen _her_ , Hermione Granger, to be its' confident.

Hermione would be lying if she said she wasn't more than a bit flattered, and maybe a tad smug. _Take_ that _Ronald Weasley._

But _Hogwarts was a sentient object._ Hogwarts had a _soul_. The very concept could completely revolutionize the wizarding world. (Well, at least in Britain.) There would be articles, studies, ministry officials attempting to commune with the moss growing on the roof shingles and the dusty old tapestries. It would become a norm: Have a question? Ask Hogwarts.

But of course, there would probably also be the crazy zealots who would be creeped out by the fact that Hogwarts had witnessed every second of their lives within its' halls. (Hermione herself wasn't too creeped out by it. She figured that after more than a thousand years of existence, the school must have seen it all.) Those with secrets to hide would become afraid, and people do rash, foolish things when they're afraid. She could easily imagine those people trying to tear this school up at its roots for their own safety.

Which was why Hermione intended to keep this discovery entirely to herself. At least for now.

She traced the lettering on the cover lightly, almost reverently. _A Memoir_. This was nothing at all like the history texts Professor Binns would assign. This was practically a mini novel, designed to draw the reader in with bated breath, not bore them to sleep. It reduced the great and powerful fantastic founders of myth to… Just a couple of teenage protagonists. She could _connect_ to it.

The Four Founders. Arguably, they had the most important influence on wizard kind in all of Great Britain's lengthy history. There was hardly a wizard in the UK who didn't go to Hogwarts, or know someone who went to Hogwarts, or sent their kids to Hogwarts. Yet little to nothing was known about them. Each year, students were given the bare bones of their legend, bedtime stories confirmed by the rhymes of a hat. But that was that. There were plenty of theories concerning the founders. (She'd read most of them.) Most of them were about how they had been torn apart. Some said it had ended when each of the friends tried sizing control of the school for themself. Others claimed that Salazar, furious at the others' refusal to teach only purebloods, had walked out. Still others were more obscure, alluding to student riots and dark magic and perfidy.

However, all these stories seemed to agree on one thing: There had been some kind of great betrayal, and Salazar was the cause of it.

But after reading that chapter… Hermione just couldn't see Salazar as the bad guy. Maybe it was the way he interacted with his friends, how he put up with them treating him like furniture. Maybe it was simply because he seemed so… _nice._

 _"I wanted the first memory in this locket to be a happy one."_

And just so sweet and calm (compared to the others.) and caring. More like a Hufflepuff when she compared him to his modern day followers.

The page was taunting her, inviting her to turn it. Hermione thrummed with anticipation. All of the answers to an age-old quirie, down to the most scrupulous and unimportant detail, were right in front of her. All she had to do was keep reading…

But then she thought of all her classes tomorrow, and peeked out the bed curtains at her alarm clock. 11:46. She bit her lip, then turned the page, just to glimpse how the next chapter started. Then she would go to bed.

Chapter Two:

Starring Rowena the Rebellious Teen.

That settled it. Hermione nestled back down to read in her tangle of warm fluffy blankets and goose feather pillows, not caring about how tired she would surely be tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: So. It's been a month. Or two. Between writers block and finals and my life blowing up in my face, I've had most of this ready to post forever and haven't actually gotten around to posting it. I'll try not to let this happen again. But you don't want to read about me. You want to read about Rowena! Enjoy.**

Chapter Two:

Starring Rowena the Rebellious Teen.

Rowena Ravenclaw had never been suited to the life of the court.

Other girls, peasant girls, would spend their days leaning on a windowsill while they were supposed to be hanging out the laundry, daydreaming about what it would be like to live the life of a princess.

Not Rowena. (She wouldn't be caught dead leaning on a windowsill daydreaming about _anything._ ) She practically _was_ a princess. (Or, at least she used to be.) All of three months ago, she was extremely grateful that she _wasn't_ a princess, or the few scant freedoms she was allowed would surely be taken away.

While Betsy down in the village bakery laid her mother's pies out to cool on the window-ledge, sighed, propped her head in her hands, and dreamed of all the stunning, gleaming, sparkling jewelry she might own, Rowena was flinging the garish ruby rings her mother had bought her for her fifteenth birthday across the room in annoyance. She was tearing off her absurdly heavy, and inconvenient, triple-strand pearl necklace, before stuffing it in her jewelry box. She gave the box -encrusted with almost as many sparkling treasures as it contained- a look of unrestrained disgust, before she snapped the lid shut. She then dug around under her bed, scrabbling among the dust bunnies, for an old, fat, equally dusty book.

Rowena flopped on her silken canopy bed with a sigh, and she then spent the next half hour cooling down by reading poetry about the ocean that was so good, it almost wasn't cliche, and it almost did the real thing justice.

Almost.

-O-

...Down in the village, Betsy stopped admiring her bracelet of coral, abalone, and dreams, and tried to pinpoint what seemed so _off_. Then it struck her: she couldn't smell the pies anymore.

She stuck her head out the window just in time to see twelve-year-old Billy halfway down the street with the pilfered pastries. He even had the impertinence to laugh over his shoulder and blow her a raspberry like the immature little toddler she knew he was.

Betsy then treated all the neighbors to the sight of her racing down the street, screaming obscenities at her younger cousin as she brandished a rolling pin.

-O-

...Two well-to-do estates away, Maria was sewing a gown.

It was a splendid gown, all lemon cream and gold trim, with poufy pleats and a hem like cotton candy. But alas, Maria was not sowing this gown for herself. She was sowing it for the spoiled little brat the landlord raised, though whether she was _really_ his daughter was questionable, and a frequently revisited top if of gossip among the locals.

Maria sat back with a sigh, massaging her aching fingers. It was nearly finished. Maria gazed at the silk longingly, trying to imagine herself in such a dress. Trying to imagine herself owning many such dresses, in chiffon and turquoise and alluring forest green, the fabric as soft as a cloud and smooth as a river beneath her cheek…

-O-

Meanwhile, Rowena did her best not to growl as she was transfigured into a human pin cushion.

"Hold still!" the seamstress fretted, hands fluttering like frantic moths. Rowena gritted her teeth and permitted another needle to be applied, wincing as it slid a hair's breadth away from her skin.

"You'll look so lovely with this black collar," she babbled as she measured Rowena's waist for the tenth time in as many minutes. "It truly contrasts with your skin and makes it just _glow_. And this beautiful blue, it brings out your eyes so well My Lady, you'll outshine them all tomorrow evening…" Rowena let her chatter, the noise washing over her as the seamstress pulled, pinned, and prodded. She could only think of how much she _hated_ these dresses, _especially_ this one, which was laced far too tight at the chest. But she soldiered on, dreaming of her tutoring session in half an hour. Mr. Bullwrinkle may be next to useless, but at least he recognized that Rowena, despite being a girl, actually possessed no exiguous amount of intelligence.

 _I swear,_ she smouldered, with murderous intent, as the waist cinched ever tighter. _If mother makes me miss out on my history lesson for a_ dress fitting _, I won't be held accountable for any of my extreme - and quite possibly violent - actions._

-O-

...Maria woke with a start, a thin stream of drool dribbling down her face. She sat up, disoriented, then glanced out the window and groaned. It was dark. She had fallen asleep before she could finish her work. Which meant she'd have to try stitching in near darkness, with just the light of one measly candle. This was going to take _forever…_

Maria sighed and picked up her thread, beginning the first of her many failed attempts to put the tiny string directly through the equally tiny hole…

-O-

The next evening, Alana was carrying her milk to market, and she was bored. So as she trudged along the mud-trodden path, she began to allow her mind to wander...

And it wandered to a magnificent ball, where she was no longer a milkmaid, but a stunning noblewoman in jewels of moonlight and a gown of satin. She was the most beautiful maiden there, and everyone knew it. The girls gazed at her enviously, and the boys looked on with desire. She sailed through the room, awash in the veneration. And then-

A dark stranger, dressed in the finery of one who's rich, yet doesn't wish to draw attention to himself, snaring her with smoldering eyes. He crossed the glinting marble floor, captured her hand, and ran his lips over her knuckles, sending shivers down her spine. He gazed down at her in worship, and implored…

-O-

"Might I have the honor of this dance?"

Rowena pasted her default charming smile on her face, hoping it didn't come off as more of a sneer, and replied, with all the grace and courtesy she wasn't feeling at that moment, "Of course good Sir."

Benvolio placed on hand on her waist, and the other matched up with her own fingers. He began to lead her courteously through the dance as the bards played in a lilting, three-four time.

It was all very polite and proper, no doubt because Ben had a clear view of Rowena's parents drilling holes in the back of her head with their intensely phlegmatic expressions. Watching. Measuring. Analyzing. Questioning: _Would they be a good match…?_

Rowena didn't know what her parents were thinking. She was only just turning fifteen, not nearly old enough to even begin thinking about marriage. At least, not in her opinion.

Unfortunately, this was one of the many, many topics she and her parents' opinions differed greatly on.

She and Ben kept it casual, with, "How have you been's?" and "What have you been up to recently's?" dominating their conversation.

Rowena knew she should have considered herself lucky. There were far more available girls their age at this party than boys, and the boys who were present were, for the most part, some combination of pimpley, horney, or jerks. Ben was one of the few who didn't fall into any of these categories. He was actually quite pretty, with his winter eyes and rosy lips, and Rowena could feel the blistering gaze of every girl in the room, (nearly as intense as her parents',) all of them incredulous that _Ben_ would display any interest in _her_.

"To be honest," he muttered, "I just wanted to spend some time with a girl who doesn't faint every time I make eye contact with her."

Ah. So that explained it.

-O-

...Alana stared in despair at the pool of milk on the muddy ground, already wincing at the verbal lashing her mother was bound to give her.

-O-

Yes indeed, Rowena had loathed every aspect of her lifestyle with a burning passion. Well, not _every_ aspect. It wasn't the luxury of expensive dresses and fancy dining so much as the ludicrous styles and waste of all the excess food. It wasn't the finery and riches she hated, so much as the expectations her parents placed on her, both as a witch, and as a respectable noble's daughter.

She was to master all her spells and potions, but only those required of her. No spells for disarming, fighting, or defense. No potions for healing or floating, or any such tom-foolery. No practical uses of magic either, such as washing or cooking. That was servant's work.

And she was to do it all without writing.

Because, apparently, her parents were of the lofty opinion that a noblewoman would find no practical use for writing in her life whatsoever.

With all things considered, it wasn't at all surprising that when you couple all those variables with the announcement of the arranged marriage that was sure to come sooner or later, Rowena had decided to run away.

Which is why we must begin our story with her hiding in a copse of trees just off the main road, underneath a makeshift tent as it's pouring down rain, tracing the letters of the alphabet by candlelight; because she still hasn't managed to find herself a wand.

She would come to find, in time, that it was the best decision she'd ever made.

* * *

Hermione awoke to the uncomfortable feeling of her frizzy hair pinned in place to her cheek between stale drool and a pillow as she was shaken gently back and forth.

"Hermione? Er, it is Hermione, isn't it? You're going to be late for school." Her eyes snapped open at a speed that might have been a possible world record.

"SCHOOL!?" She exclaimed, still used to the summer habits one has of sleeping until nine at the latest. But of course. School. Hogwarts. Her first day at Hogwarts, and…

She saw the book lying open on the bed a few inches from her face, and quickly snapped it shut.

"Yes," Lavender explained hesitantly. "There's only five minutes until breakfast is over, but you were fast asleep earlier and we didn't want to disturb you-' She was cut off by her roommate leaping from bed and beginning the process of flinging herself into her robes, muttering something about how it was a good thing she'd had the foresight to pack her bag the night before. In less than thirty seconds she was dressed and swinging her bag over her shoulder. She hesitated, then grabbed the book on her bed and dashed out the door.

Lavender and Pavarti glanced at each other, shrugged, and began strolling their way leisurely to class.

 **A/N: PS. I promised myself I wouldn't be one of those writers who grovel for reviews when I write this, but that was before I understood how nerve wracking it is putting your work out and not knowing if anyone even cares. 1 review please! That's all I ask for. Whoever reviews gets the next chapter dedicated to them.**


	4. Chapter 3

**So I promised myself I'd only wait three days to finish and publish this chapter. And now - oh look! It's been two weeks. I've given up making promises to myself.**

 **This goes out to Higure Hokousha. Thanks for the review! Hope you like this chapter!**

 **(PS. Should I be doing disclaimers? I mean, it's fanfiction, it's obvious I don't own it. And I'm fairly sure I'm not a 50 year old woman who tears at our heartstrings by killing our favorite characters.**

 **Oh well. I don't own the founders! Even though I really really wish I did.)**

* * *

Chapter Three:

A Friend, and An Optimist

Lunch was perfection. Hermione carried her plate outside to sit under a singular tree near the banks of the lake in the gorgeous sunshine. The glassy green surface of the large glittered like emeralds, and the giant squid swam in happy circles, waving hello to a group of Hufflepuffs traversing the damp shores. The Hufflepuffs waved back.

 _There is_ nothing _more pleasant than a book and a picnic on a beautiful day,_ Hermione mused to herself. _Especially since I have my first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to look forward to next period._

She glanced up at the leaves painting dappled shadows on the page in front of her. _I wonder if this tree was here during the founders' time._ She looked at the root she was sitting on, with a little knothole shaped like a Q. _I wonder if the founders themselves planted this tree. Maybe they sat here, right where I'm sitting, more than a thousand years ago. Maybe Rowena was reading a book and eating her lunch to get away from the busy castle, just like I am._ She looked out over the lake. _How long has the squid been at Hogwarts? Did the founders put it here? Did it already live here? Surely not; how long can squids live?_

She smiled to herself and thought giddily: _There's so much to know, and I'll be the only one who knows it!_ as she turned the page.

* * *

Helga Hufflepuff was, above all other things, an optimist.

She'd been optimistic as a child, growing up in a quaint little village full of wonderful, friendly, affable people. She'd been optimistic about everything from day-to-day things (she was _positive_ that she would find that pretty bracelet of woven grass and golden thread her brother had made her), to momentous, copiously stressful things (there wasn't a doubt in her mind that her mother's delivery of her seventh child would go perfectly smoothly).

She'd been optimistic (with, admittedly, some difficulty,) about leaving everything she'd ever known behind, including her family. Her kind mother and steadfast father. Her eldest brother, who constantly did his best to guide them. Her older sister, who always listened. Every single one of her spontaneous little siblings, constantly full of delightful surprises. She'd loved them all more than life itself, and it killed her to know that she'd probably never get to see them again, would probably never even get to say goodbye.

But hey. Travel, right? Adventure! Travel and adventure meant new experiences, which meant meeting new people, and she was sure each and every one of them would be fascinating and amazing in their own unique - if sometimes hidden - way. Who didn't love travel and adventure?

She'd been optimistic when, and she's quoting Rowena here, she'd been, "forced into unrelenting servitude by that ungrateful bastard of a crotchety old grouch who wouldn't say a kind word to his own loving mother." (Helga personally thought that Mr. Gitson hadn't been that bad. He may have been grouchy, but she'd seen how much he loved his work.)

And it was because she was an optimist that she could treasure all the good traits Rowena Ravenclaw had.

During that first week of travel, others might have become frustrated with the constant uppity air Rowena had inherited as the sole heir of a very wealthy bloodline. Others might have become extremely aggravated by the way she automatically treated others as complete and utter morons until proven otherwise, and always sought to correct their highly mistaken opinion (whether they wanted her to or not). Others might have just fucking lost it after three weeks of journeying with her rather… blunt, questions, (ranging from inquisitive to nosy to just plain old none-of-your-business _rude_.) inexhaustible number of answers, and (stubborner-than-an-ass) strong minded opinions.

However, whenever Helga found herself becoming any of these things, she was able to focus on one clear, unforgettable memory of Rowena that surpassed all others in importance…

-O-

It was about midday when the eagles soared.

The sun shone without interruption or obstruction, too brilliant to acknowledge directly, yet always present. Rowena bit down on her dust infested chunk of bread without so much as a flicker of disgust, esteemed manners befitting a lady of her status. It is nearly impossible to eat slightly stale bread sprinkled with grit with an air of dignity and grace, yet Rowena managed it. She made sure to swallow completely before commenting,

"Don't you think it's absurd how wizards have existed for as long as humanity itself, and yet we still haven't figured out how to make ourselves fly?" Helga choked down her own mouthful of too-much-time and ground-dehydrated-by-intense-summer-heat, and gulped down some equally stale and dusty water, before answering.

"What are you talking about? Isn't that what broomsticks are for?"

" _Broomsticks,"_ Rowena scoffed. "Eons of civilization, and the best we can come up with are _broomsticks_." She shook her head. "No. I mean _really_ fly. It's every child's dream to find themselves soaring on nothing but their own imagination. We have the power to make dreams a reality, and what do we do? We content ourselves with doing loop-de-loops atop household items. Sticks with twigs at the end and musty, woven carpets. On rugs and _broomsticks._ "

"Well how else would you suggest we fly?" Helga asked. "We can't change how much we weigh, it's simply not possible. So unless you intend to make your bones hollow like a birds', I can't see how you would ever weigh enough to float on thin air."

"Who says it's impossible!?" Rowena cried. "Who? We have magic! We can control the realms of possibility! Muggles would say that talking kettles are impossible, but are they? No! Maybe I _will_ make my bones hollow! Or maybe I won't, maybe there's an easier way to find a solution."

"How?" Helga asked, thoroughly baffled.

"It's right there, in the Greek legend of Daedalus and Icarus," she replied zealously. "One day, I'll find a way to create a spell that will give me the wings of an eagle. And then, I will _soar_." She gazed rapturously up at the birds wheeling above them. Helga watched her, reading her, realizations clicking into place.

Rowena shook herself free of her fantasy.

"Never mind," she muttered, somehow managing to be simultaneously sullen and aloof. "I can't expect you to understand."

-O-

But Helga did understand. More than Rowena could possibly know.

She understood that someone who can hold onto a childhood dream like flying couldn't be _all_ bad. In fact, they couldn't even be _mostly_ bad.

And she also understood that it was her duty as both a friend, and as an optimist, to always try and see only the good parts of Rowena Ravenclaw, this girl who wanted to fly.


	5. Chapter 4

**AN: Wow. I actually managed to update within (about) a week this time! Oh the relief of no longer having writers block. Now I can write new chapters, instead of dusting off old stuff I wrote months ago.**

 **I swear Salazar and Godric are in the next one.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this is Mr. Gitson. Which is just my luck, damn it.**

* * *

Chapter Four:

Magical Meetings

 **Part One**

Helga might have been more attentive to who exactly walked into Mr. Gitson's Wand Shop had she known that the seventh customer she would serve that day would change her life forever.

The first three had been eleven year old children, whose names Helga could still remember, because she always put in a special effort to try and call someone by name. Elena, Jacin, and Ingen. By no means easy names to remember, but she somehow managed. She could even recall their faces.

The next had been an arrogant witch, maybe seventeen, who had managed to get her wand broken while doing Merlin-knows-what, she'd refused to go into specifics. She'd been one of those people who are vain and arrogant, and had treated Helga as a faceless servant. But Helga had smiled and pretended to ignore her aloof manner, kind as ever.

The fifth was another child, only nine this time, whose name had been Matthew. Matthew seemed terrified at the prospect of having to try and buy a wand all by himself, especially after seeing the grizzled old shopkeeper. But Helga had set him at ease with kind and reassuring words, and he'd walked out of the shop with the proud grin of a child filled with the glow of self accomplishment.

The sixth had been a widow, seeking to sell the wand of her late husband. Mrs. Dottens had gone home happy, having shed bittersweet memories for an extremely reasonable price.

But if you were to go by the first impression Helga had gotten of her seventh customer on that sunny June-not-quite-July-yet day, you would have concluded, as she did, that while this customer was certainly memorable, the impact she would have had on Helga's life would not be quite so drastic.

She could not have been more wrong.

At precisely 2:39 PM, the seventh customer arrived. Her arrival consisted of a girl with lengthy raven locks and stern blue eyes sailing into that somewhat-well-known wand shop like a battleship. She marched right up to the desk, and Helga met her gaze with a smile.

"Hello," she greeted. "How can I help you today?" The girl narrowed her eyes.

"Aren't you a little _young_ to be running a wand shop" she challenged, incredulous. Helga responded with a small laugh.

"Oh I don't _own_ the shop. That's my master, Mr. Gitson."

"Yes, I know," the girl said tersely. "His name was printed on the sign outside." Helga's smile didn't falter a hair, though it did become a bit forced. She didn't feel any sparks of anger or resentment as most people might, but rather, disappointment. Disappointment that this girl was just another mean spirited, self centered person who probably didn't bother to spare others a second thought.

"Right. Well then, I take it you're here to purchase a new wand?"

"No, I'm looking for a cauldron. I just happened to wander into this wand shop because I felt like wasting my precious time." Helga's benevolent smile became even more strained.

"Of course. Let's see what I can do for you." She stood and began rummaging through the countless shelf-fulls of small, rectangularly prismatic boxes. "It would help decrease my options if I could have some relative information."

"Such as?"

"Your name, to start with."

"My name," the girl promulgated, "Is Rowena Ravenclaw." Helga nodded and tried offering up another brief smile.

"It's nice to meet you Rowena." Rowena gave her no acknowledgement except for a non-committal humming noise in the back of her throat. Helga turned back to the shelves muttering core strengths and wood sizings under her breath.

After a few moments of silence, Rowena asked, "You said Mr. Gitson is your master. Are you an apprentice?"

"She's a servant," a gruff voice croaked. An old man with hair far past balding and mean, harsh features emerged from the back of the dimly-lit store, leaning heavily on his cane. "An' a darned foolish one at that," Mr. Gitson added spitefully. Helga lowered her head respectfully under his cruel gaze.

"A servant?" Rowena inquired, her curiosity peaked. "How did this come about?"

"That's not any o' yer business, i'nt it now?" the old man snarled.

"What if I made it my business?" Rowena reached into her pocket and pulled out a shining silver sickle. Mr. Gitson licked his cracked, dry lips.

"If ya'd like ta make it yer business, well, who'm I ter stop ya from wastin' good coin?" The sickle disappeared in the wandmaker's robe, and his tongue began to flow more freely.

"Helga came ter me off the streets about a month ago, lookin' ta get herself a wand. Unfortunately fer her, she didn't have any money to pay fer it. Not even a penny to her name; just an old sackfull o' sentimental-like items that was useless ta me. So I struck her a deal. I'd give her her wand, free o' charge, if she'd be willin' ta work fer me fer three years." Rowena raised an eyebrow.

"Three years seems like a rather copious amount of time in exchange for a mere wand." Mr. Gitson's voice took on a defensive note.

"Now see here Miss, I put a little bit o' my soul into crafting each and every one o' these wands. I won't lie, I do drive a fairly high price for 'em; but I cun guarantee ya won't find better quality anywhere else."

"I didn't mean to offend Mr. Gitson, but perhaps it is important to consider that time and money are very different currencies." Mr. Gitson snorted.

"Teenagers. Ya think three years is long? Wait 'till yer my age. Then, three years'll be nuthin', the blink of an eye." Rowena made that non-committal humming noise again, which the old man man seemed to take for agreement. "Helga!" he barked.

"Yes Master Gitson?"

"Go fetch Miss Ravenclaw number two-hundred and fourteen, maybe that'll suit-

* * *

"Miss Granger!" Hermione gasped as the book was plucked from her grasp. She looked up into the eyes of a VERY annoyed Professor McGonagall. _Oh no…_

"I- I'm sorry Professor," she stammered. "I was just-"

"Miss Granger," McGonagall snapped. "This is not the first, but the SECOND time I have caught you reading under the desk in my class. There will not be a third." Hermione hung her head.

"Yes ma'am." McGonagall strode back to her desk, opened a drawer, and put the book in it before locking the drawer with a key. Hermione bit back humiliation and hurt and worry as Ron snickered,

"Bookworm got busted," a few desks behind her.

-O-

It was almost a month before Hermione managed to work up the nerve to ask McGonagall for the book back. Every time she tried, she quailed under the memory of the Head of House's stern gaze and punctual deduction of house points, even for those in Gryffindor. Hermione would _hate_ to disappoint McGonagall any more than she already had. All her life, every single one of her teachers had adored her. It was a kind of conciliation prize for all her other classmates disliking her. But more than that, she was terrified she might lose house points if she asked McGonagall for the book back while was still mad about it. Then her classmates would _really_ resent her. At least being a Know It All meant the teachers doled out points to her like generous do-gooders might dole out candy to starving grubby-cheeked orphans. Despite how much the others in her house (except maybe Percy) disliked her, she did feel a strong sense of house unity. Slytherins had won one year too many, and Hermione wanted Gryffindors to take the House Cup this year. (She couldn't help but wonder how the original founders would feel about the House Cup rivalry now. She could easily imagine it degrading into a "My house is winning," "Oh yeah well my house is sure to beat yours this year!" war. But she could also see the founders being genuinely concerned that their students actually hated their rivals with a burning passion, instead of it all being more like a friendly competition.)

One thing lead to another, and Hermione let the matter lapse. But then it came back to haunt her with the terrifying thought that McGonagall might be _reading_ that book. What if she read it and didn't let her have it back? How would she find out everything about the founders she wanted to know? (Which was absolutely everything there _was_ to know.) She stressed and fretted about this all September, and though she knew she was being irrational, facing her teacher still terrified her.

At last, after giving herself a stern pep talk of _I am a Gryffindor, I'm supposed to be courageous, and this is really just getting very silly, all this fuss over a book,_ she stayed behind after class one day to confront the beast.

"Yes Miss Granger?" McGonagall said, looking up at her from beneath her spectacles.

"I, well, I was just wondering Professor," Hermione said timidly, "If I could have my book back."

"Which book is this?" McGonagall asked, giving her a blank look.

"The book you took from me at the beginning of term, Professor. I was reading under the desk."

"Ah, yes. I was wondering when you would ask for that back." McGonagall unlocked the drawer in her desk and pulled out Hogwarts A History Revised. "Here it is, exactly where I put it. This drawer hasn't even been opened since I confiscated it."

"Thank you Professor," Hermione said gratefully, holding out her hands. She was eager to finally have the book back with her where she knew it would be safe. But McGonagall kept it slightly out of reach, saying,

"I trust that you have learned your lesson Miss Granger." Hermione nodded keenly.

"Yes I have Professor. No more reading under the desk, in this or any other class."

"Good girl," McGonagall stated, handing the book back to Hermione. _At last!_ "It's always nice to see a student interested in reading for their own pleasure, instead of just as required work for their studies. Run along now, you don't want to be late to your next class."

"Yes Professor, thank you Professor!"

-O-

As soon as Hermione got all her homework done, she plugged herself into a cushy armchair by the fire in the Gryffindor common room and whipped out her book. It was about time she got to finish this chapter! Where was she? Oh yes, Gitson being a git…

* * *

"Helga!" he barked.

"Yes Master Gitson?"

"Go fetch Miss Ravenclaw number two-hundred and fourteen, maybe that'll suit her." Helga disappeared among the shelves with a bob and a curtsy. "Speakin' o' which…" Gitson said, shooting Rowena a curious glance. "Ya wouldn't happen ter be Miss Rowena Ravenclaw from up by the Ravenclaw estate, would ya?" Rowena visibly stiffened.

"And what's it to you if I am?" she replied coolly. The old man chuckled low, and said,

"Nothin' Miss, nothin' at all. It's just that ya'd be a long way from home if ya were."

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Mr. Gitson."

"Right ya are Miss, right ya are…" Helga then returned with wand number two-hundred and fourteen for Rowena to test. It resulted with a violent blast of frigid air which shattered all the glass in the shop, and sent Mr. Gitson into a wheezing fit of laughter.

"Got a tough customer, eh? A strong one too, from the looks of it. Ya girls wait here just a minute, I've got just the thin'..." As soon as Rowena gauged that he was out of earshot, she placed a hand on Helga's shoulder with surprising levels of concern.

"Does he treat you well?" she asked.

"What?" Helga startled.

"Mr. Gitson. Does he harm you in any way?"

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Of course not! Master Gitson's not like that, he's just a bit cranky in his old age." Rowena released her grip on the servant's shoulder.

"If you're sure then…"

"I'm positive." The subject of their gossip returned then, seeming much more cheerful now that he was in his element: wand selling, not socializing.

"Here we are!" he chirped. "Nine and a half inch buckthorn, with dragon's heartstring; fer rebellious spirits. It'll take a good strong hand ta wield this one…"

-O-

After a series of failed wands, Rowena finally found the one suited for her.

"Darkened Elderwood, eleven inches, sentient owl's feather core. Quite an unusual combination. That'll be nine galleons, if ya'd please." Rowena placed the stack of gold on the counter, then said,

"I have an offer for you Mr. Gitson."

"Oh? Ya do now, eh?"

"Yes. I'll pay you a full twenty five galleons, if it will cover the cost for Helga's wand as well." Helga's head snapped up and her mouth dropped open. Mr. Gitson's eyes narrowed to slits in what could have been surprised interest, or fury.

"Now why do ya' think I'd be interested in an offer like that?"

"Even you must see what a deal this is," Rowena wheedled in her best _look-at-how-reasonable-I'm-being_ voice. "I'm giving you sixteen extra galleons, surely more than the price of any wand you might give her. Plus, you've already gotten more than a month's worth of free labor." Helga watched the two of them stare down, air taut with the tension of two pertinacious wills clashing. Finally, Gitson lowered his gaze and sighed.

"Fine then. I accept yer offer Miss Ravenclaw." Rowena blinked with surprise.

"You do?"

"'Course I do. There's hardly any point in refusin', is there? 'Specially since I've already made her one personally." Mr. Gitson beckoned to the back of his shop, where the workroom resided. "Come on, I'll show ya."

-O-

"Normally I'd offer a higher price fer a custom-made wand, 'specially since there's no guarantee that the wand I make 'll take to the wizard I make it fer," Mr. Gitson explained. "But when ya combine the last month with Miss Ravenclaw's price… Well, I think ya've more than earned it." He opened the box to reveal a simple, creamy colored wand.

"Maple and unicorn hair, nine inches. Nice and supple. Well, go on girl, what are ya waitin' fer? Give it a wave!"

She did.

It was the perfect fit.

-O-

"Why did you help me?" Rowena said nothing, she merely raised an eyebrow, and action Helga was beginning to realize came second nature to her. "Not that I'm not grateful or anything," she gushed, "I really am. It's just… You don't really strike me as the kind of person who helps others without expecting something in return." Rowena fixed Helga with her frigid, authoritative gaze, and said,

"I'm not. However, I _am_ the kind of person who knows the difference between right and wrong. What that man was doing to you was wrong. It was blackmail at best, and enslavement at worst. I could not, for my own conscious' sake, simply mind my own business while I had the power to do something to aid you." Helga opened her mouth to defend her former master, to say she had entered his service willingly, that Rowena was overreacting and judging him far too harshly… but found that she couldn't. Maybe it was because deep down, she knew that Rowena was right. No decent person would demand three years of someone's life for a wand, something no witch or wizard should have to go without.

A silence passed in which Helga studied the ground beneath her feet, (cobblestone, this particular town was just important enough to sport paved roads.) and Rowena studied her.

The moment passed, and Helga watched (a little helplessly) as Rowena Ravenclaw turned to walk out of her life.

This, dear reader, is a perfect example of how the smallest things can make the biggest difference. So easily, Rowena could have simply kept walking. Helga might never have seen her again, and the founders would never have been united. They never would have achieved their dream, and I would not be here to tell you this tale.

But instead, Rowena looked back over her shoulder and jerked her head in the direction she was going; an almost imperceptible invitation for Helga to walk with her.

She took it.

"I don't really know what to do next," Helga admitted. "Mr. Gitson might have been mean, but at least he offered warm food and a roof over my head."

"Well, how did you end up in his service in the first place?"

"...I ran away from home."

"Why?"

"Why are you so inquisitive?"

"I have an insatiable curiosity."

"I could tell," Helga said, not unkindly.

"In my experience," Rowena proclaimed, all knowing as usual, "people only run away for two reasons. They're either running from something, or moving towards something worth more than what they've left behind."

"It's a little bit of both, in my case," Helga shrugged. Rowena nodded sympathetically.

"I don't really know what I'm doing or where I'm going next either. But I don't think it particularly matters that you know what to do as long as you know what you're looking for."

"Do you know what you're looking for?"

"Yes. Knowledge."

"Knowledge?"

"Knowledge. Learning. Wisdom. Teachings of all types, not just in magic."

Helga pondered this for a moment, then said, "That definitely sounds like a goal worth looking for."

"It is." It became apparent to Helga that Rowena was leading them towards the town inn. They were strolling up the central avenue, passing all the quaint little shops lined up like books on a shelf. A store full of marionettes, Mrs. Burnheart's bakery, the local cobbler's, all neat and snuggled together. Permanent fixtures in these people's lives, effortlessly fitting in.

For some reason, despite how welcoming these people had been towards Helga, she'd never quite gotten that "fitting in" feeling during her stay in this tiny town.

"Do you know what you're looking for?" Rowena asked. Helga bit her lip, uncertain.

"...I think so. I think I'm just… looking for ways to help people. To support them. To show them kindness. It was one of the reasons I didn't mind working in Mr. Gitson's shop. What's more helpful than matching a wizard to his wand?" Rowena nodded and said,

"That also sounds like a goal worth looking for."

"I just hope it makes up for everything I've lost…" Thankfully, for once, Rowena didn't ask questions.

They'd reached the inn. Rowena pushed open the heavy oak door, stained from weather, grime, and drink, and said,

"I've rented a room in this inn with space for an extra bed. Perhaps…" She hesitated. "Perhaps if neither of us know where we are going, we can search for our goals together. For a time." Helga smiled, sweet as sugar cake, and said,

"I'd like that."

* * *

When Hermione went to bed that night, she promised herself she would read at a slower pace. Homework and studies came first. No more staying up flipping pages until two in the morning. She couldn't do anything to risk losing the book again. Even if it meant she might not get to finish a chapter for, quite possibly, a long time…


	6. Chapter 4 Part 2

**A/N: Here you are Esmer! A really long update with a really long AN you don't have to read!**

 **This chapter is a collage of stuff written at one in the morning. I don't think it's good, but my friend tells me otherwise. Positive feedback?**

 **It's story time! This whole thing started when my best friend said:** What if the whole Gryffindor/Slytherin feud started because Godric stole a slice of Salazar's chocolate cake? **And I said:** What if all the modern day characters found out that thousands of years of bloodshed and hate all started because of a slice of cake? **And we both grinned at each other because we knew what we were going to say next. Friend:** What if they were together? **Me:** What if everyone found out they were together? **F:** Can you imagine Harry's reaction?! **M:** Can you imagine DRACO'S reaction!? **F:** Can you imagine Hermione just looking from Draco to Harry and smirking and saying, "It all makes sense now!"?

 **And then for some reason I couldn't just write that one scene. Instead, my brain decided to evolve it into this mini novella. Because my brain's rational like that.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own these sweet, adorable little cinnamon rolls. *Cries***

* * *

Chapter Four:

Magical Meetings

 **Part Two**

There was a new boy at the table.  
That fact in itself wasn't altogether surprising, new and old faces came & went frequently depending on each boy's resilience & The Master's will. But this boy was different. He didn't yet have the air of desperation, frustration, or cruelty that was invariably acquired after spending any adequate amount of time living under The Master's roof.  
Yet.  
Perhaps the shining iron long sword tied at his waist was the source of this new boy's confidence.  
Salazar hadn't been there to bear witness to this stranger's arrival, but he'd heard the other apprentices talking about it. Supposedly, he'd marched out of the fog-cloaked fen & barged through the door as if he owned the place, demanding that The Master take him on as an apprentice. Miraculously, the old man seemed to have agreed. Though there were also rumors that he was a werewolf trained in the art of necromancy, so Salazar was more than a little skeptical.

-O-

Dinner was a miserable affair, as always. All was silent during the first five minutes in which The Master gave his usual query, "What have you accomplished today?" and criticized each boy's response. (Salazar was skipped, as usual, thank Merlin. So was the new boy.) But once The Master took his leave to eat his own dinner in his rooms, pandemonium ensued. Plates shattered, insults were exchanged, and food was flung.

It was no wonder Salazar braved the damp, frigid air to go eat on the roof.

-O-

An hour or so later, a weary Salazar trudged down the moaning stairs, eager for the day to be over. Eager for the release of sleep. Eager for his scabbed cuts and colorful range of bruises, from violent purple to putrid yellow, to stop aching. Hoping for the peaceful forgetfulness of dreamless rest.

No dreams. No nightmares. Please no nightmares.

But nightmares don't listen to please.

He unlocked the door to his room, _"Alohomora!"_ and found that sleep would be a long way off.

"Hi!" the boy greeted, leaping to his feet off the spare bed and holding out a hand to shake. "My name's Godric. What's yours?" Salazar flinched, taken aback by this boy's… Well, his entire being really. His enthusiasm, his bold stance, his rambunctious grin, even his light brown, scruffy, flyaway hair. Everything about him was so _different_ , so out of place in these drab, dreary, miserable halls.

He was still waiting, hand outstretched, but his grin was starting to fade and Salazar realized he'd been doing nothing for far too long.

"Salazar," he muttered, soft spoken, managing a half-hearted smile as he shook the boy's - Godric's - hand. His grip was solid and firm. "Salazar Slytherin." Godric blinked.

"I'm sorry, did you just say… Okay, I KNOW I heard that wrong."

"What?"

"Did you just say your name is Salad-Bar Slithering?" Salazar's mouth twitched up in the faintest semblance of a smile. It was the first somewhat-semblance of a smile he'd had in a long, long time. He'd been called many names before, but Salad Bar? That was new.

"I think you need your ears cleaned."

"Well it doesn't help that you're mumbling!" Salazar crossed his arms and enunciated slowly and clearly,

"Sal-a-zar, Sly-ther-in."

"Salad- Salazar- Saladzar Slith- bleh. Me can't speak English." Salazar felt that unfamiliar little half smile again. "Salazar Slytherin."

"Good job Godric, you get a gold star now."

"Can I just call you Sal?" Godric asked weakly. Sal scowled.

"No. You cannot call me Sal. My name is Salazar, it rolls off the tongue. It really shouldn't be that difficult. Besides, Sal is a girl's name."

"Okay Sal!" Godric grinned. "It's nice to meet you." Godric bounced back onto his bed and turned to face his new roomy, sitting criss-cross-apple sauce with the expression of an excited puppy.

"I suppose it's nice to meet you too Godric," Salazar drawled. "I think I'll be able to withstand your presence for the brief amount of time we have to live together." That was a lie. Salazar was starting to like this kid. He just hoped Godric made it out quick, before he got hurt.

"What makes you think I won't be around for long?" Salazar flopped on his bed and rolled on his back with a sigh of relief. _Thank Merlin._

"I'm just not a good roommate. I've had six other boys bunk with me, and they all asked to switch out before a week was up."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"I feel like this is something I should know about up front."

"You'll see tomorrow."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I imagine they'll want to talk to you as soon as breakfast's over."

"Who?"

"The other boys."

"Your old roommates?"

"It's not just my previous roommates, it'll be all of them."

"Why will they want to talk with me?"

"This conversation is over."

"Awww, but why? You're literally the only person who's said more than ten complete sentences to me all day."

"Because I've had an exhausting day, and I want to go to sleep, that's why."

"Oh. Okay." Godric blew out the candle and muttered a brief, "Night Salazar," before climbing into bed.

"...Godric?"

"Yeah?"

"You never told me your last name."

"Oh, you're right. It's Gryffindor."

"Godric Gryffindor."

"Uh-huh."

"And you criticize me for having a name like Salazar Slytherin."

"Hey, your name is a lot harder to say. All the S's and Z's mix me up. Try saying it ten times fast."

"Salazar Slytherin Salazar Slytherin Salazr Slizeren Sal Slehzeh sleh, bleh. Okay, I see what you mean."

"Exactly."

"Mm hmm."

"Sal?"

"Mm hmm?"

"Are you sleepy?"

"Mm hmm."

"Night Sal."

"Night Gee Gee."

"Gee Gee!?"

"What? I have to have something to torture you with."

"And the best you could come up with is Gee Gee?"

"Yes, because I'm tired! Now lemme sleep you moron!"

"Then stop talking to me!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" … "Hm hmmm hmm, hm hm hmmhmm hmmhmm hmm hm hmmhmhm hmm hm-"

"Godric. Stop humming."

"Okay. Hi I'm Bob. I'm a goldfish and a goldfish has a memory span of- Hi I'm Bob. I'm a goldfish and a goldfish has a memory span of- Hi I'm Bob. I'm a goldfish-"

"UGH!" Salazar stuffed a pillow over his head, and soon he was fast asleep.

For once, the nightmares never came.

-O-

"Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal."

"Uggghhh…"

"Sal, Sal, Sal, Sal, Sal, Sal."

"Mmnm…"

"Sal! Sal! Sal! Sal! Sal! Sal!"

"Whaaaaaa?"

"GET UP!"

"Noooooooo…"

"Yeeeeeeees!"

"Nooooo."

"Yes!"

"Sleeeeeep…"

"Sal."

"Thss wha dont rmmake."

"What did you say?"

"This's why I don't like havin' a roommate…"

"Well tough luck. GET UP. YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME TO BREAKFAST."

"Breakfast yourself you fool…"

"Seriously Sal, I don't know what's safe to eat! Like, are the hash browns amazing chunks of golden potato shredded goodness, or are they mush?"

"Nnngnnn."

"Are the scrambled eggs runny, or delish?"

"Muffins."

"What?"

"Gra' two muffins, sm'bacon, an' two glasses a juice. Den mee me at na roof."

"How do I get on the roof?"

"Fourth floor. Climb ofer couplah railing. Slide ter inner cour'yard balcony. West face ov house. Meet you in tweny mins."

"How do I know you're not just going to fall asleep again?"

"Won't."

"Make sure you don't, or I'll come jump on you."

"Fuck you."

"Love you too Sal, bye!"

"That's not what I-! Oh, bugger it all…"

-O-

If Godric's antics hadn't been enough to efficiently jolt Salazar awake, the chilly, mist-laced air certainly did. Which was good, because trying to traverse slippery roof tiles when half asleep is a recipe for disaster.

"Hey," Godric greeted when he saw him approaching. "This is a neat little place you've got here."

"It is." It was. It was a small little nieche where three windowless walls came together underneath a small overhang to shelter them from most wind and rain. It was impossible to see unless you were poking your head directly out of the tower above and looking down diagonally. It was perfect for those who wanted to remain hidden. "I brought blankets."

"Thank Merlin! These tiles are frigid, I'm going to freeze my arse off out here!"

"Just wait until noon," Salazar said, passing him a blanket. "They'll get hot enough to fry an egg on if the sun comes out."

"Are these HEATED!?" Godric cried, burying his face in the coarse wool. "How are they _so warm_!?"

"It's a simple charm," Salazar said as he sat down next to him. "I'll teach you sometime."

"Please do," Godric begged, wrapping himself in a blanket and throwing an arm around Salazar's shoulders. He stiffened.

"Um… What are you doing?"

"Stealing your warmth."

"...Uh-"

"Oh! I brought food!"

"Good Godric. You get another gold star for being sensible."

"Oh shush." Godric brought out two glasses of apple cider and the food. "Mmm. Baaaakon."

"Pig."

"Shub ub, I'm foo busy feeting." A wind cut through their little shelter, cooling their bacon quite rapidly. But it was still delicious. The wind snatched Salazar's hair and tossed it around, an invisible cat batting at ebony string. He paused in his meal long enough to tie it back before taking a bite of his muffin.

Godric really did eat like a pig. A relatively polite pig, but no less greedy. He had indeed gotten (non-mushy) hash browns with a bowl of melon slices and an extra portion of ham. They all teetered in a haphazard pile on his plate. Salazar himself barely made a dent in the copious meal Godric had given him, but he did allow himself to enjoy a second muffin.

Until Godric snatched it out of his hands and took a big bite out of it.

"Hey!" Salazar protested. "That's my muffin!"

"You've got a whole plateful of bacon," Godric mumbled.

"Oh yeah? Well maybe I prefer muffins over cold bacon!"

"Traitor. It was your idea to eat up here."

"Trust me," Salazar said gravely. "It's better than the dining hall. Now give me back my muffin!"

"Okay, okay! Here's your muffin back, you certainly need it," Godric teased, poking Salazar in the ribs.

Salazar flinched. Godric startled.

"Wait-" Godric laid his palm out flat against his roommate's rib cadge. Salazar gritted his teeth and said,

"Stop that."

"Bloody hell Sal, I can actually feel your ribs sticking out! Don't they feed you at this place?" Godric poked his abdomen again. The parselmouth hissed and yanked his hand away.

" _No prodding."_ Godric gaped, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice.

"Sorry. It's just, _you're so thin._ Don't you ever eat?"

"As far as I'm concerned, that's none of your business." Salazar's tone was chillier than the occasional spurts of wind that cut through their blankets.

"I'm sorry I'm being nosy," Godric said meekly. "I'm just concerned."

"It is none of your concern. It is none of your business. It is not your problem. End of story." Godric hesitated, then said,

"Eat your bacon."

"I don't like cold bacon."

"Then why'd you tell me to bring some up here!?"

"Because I was half asleep and I wasn't thinking!"

"Fine then! If you won't eat your bacon, eat my muffin!" Godric placed the pastry on Sal's plate. He blinked.

"But… It's _your_ muffin."

"Go ahead and eat it, I've got more food than I can eat anyways."

"You're just going to waste it all?"

"Yeah. So?" Salazar wasn't sure what to think of that. The concept of wasting food was something that awoke a whole tangle of emotions in him, none of which he wanted to delve into. "Salazar. Eat the muffin."

He ate the muffin.

-O-

"So," Godric said a few minutes later, while licking the sweet, sticky melon juice off his fingers. (Salazar made a mental note to make sure Godric brought napkins next time as he tried not to wince in disgust.) "How do things work around here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what are the lessons like?" Salazar sneered.

"They're informative, if a bit disorganized."

"How so?"

"Well basically The Master will give a lesson whenever he feels like it, on whatever subject pleases him. And if you're not in the house at that time, well then, tough luck."

"Is he a good teacher?"

"Yeah. Not that I would know, he's the only teacher I've ever had. But he knows how to make a point… He greatly values obedience and order."

"Those aren't necessarily bad things."

"Within moderation, yes."

"Is The Master good at being moderate about obedience and order?"

"...You'll see."

"Well," Godric said, standing up and shaking the feeling back into his legs. "I'll have to wait to see a little bit longer. We're going on an adventure!"

"Are we? Missing your first day as an apprentice to go frolic in the fen isn't exactly a good way to make first impressions."

"Oh it'll be fine," Godric said, pulling Salazar to his feet. "Let's go!" He bounded off across the clay roof tiles like a playful kitten. Salazar shook his head and started picking up the dirty dishes.

-O-

"Careful," Salazar warned, grabbing Godric's arm to stop him from wandering into an unstable patch of marshy ground. "Don't step there."

"What about there?" Godric asked, pointing at a clump of grass.

"There? That's a water-weed. You don't want to step there."

"Well where should I step!?" Godric cried in exasperation.

"Here," Salazar replied, tugging his roommate along behind him as they moved their way forward. They held their breath as their leather shoes pressed into the half frozen muck…

But they didn't sink.

"Okay," Godric sighed with relief. "Let's try to get to high ground. Is that copse over there safe?" He pointed to their left, where a small hill sported a crown of trees.

"Yes, it is."

"Okay. Lead the way." Salazar took a hesitant step towards the hill, then halted, unsure. "You _do_ know the safe way to get there, right?" He shook his head.

"No. But I know how to find out." He crouched, scanning the surrounding ground intently. Then, as an afterthought, he looked back up at Godric and said, "Just… Don't freak out, okay? This is usually the point where people decide they don't want anything to do with me. Well," he muttered, "That on top of everything else."

"Why? What are you doing?"

"You'll see," he said vaguely, and then called in a low, silky voice, _"Will-O. Are you there?"_ A tiny ribbon of silver with a tint of blue, only half a foot long, answered, darting out from between the rushes.

 _"_ _Good morning Salazar. Who's this?"_

 _"_ _Oh don't mind him, he's just a new roommate."_ Will-O hissed sympathetically and said,

 _"_ _How long do you think this one will last?"_ Salazar glanced up at Godric and replied,

 _"_ _Judging from his expression, not very long."_

"Bloody _hell_!" Godric croaked. "Are you _talking_ to that thing!?" Salazar stood up with Will-O wrapped around his forearm. He stroked her scales absentmindedly and said,

"Yes, I am."

"That's… That is SO COOL!"

"...What?"

"Dude, you can talk to SNAKES!" Godric exclaimed, bouncing up and down like an excited little kid. "That is FREAKING AMAZING!"

"That's - what? The official term is parselmouth, but, _what_? You're not… creeped out?"

"No! Why would I be? It's like a superpower or something!" Salazar's mouth twitched, a three-quarters smile this time, with just an eighth of bashfulness.

"I guess that's one way of putting it."

"So, are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Godric asked, already stroking Will-O's scales. "Soooooo smooooooth." Will-O stiffened.

 _"_ _Why is he touching me?"_

 _"_ _Because he's not freaking out as much as they normally do."_

 _"_ _Oh. That's okay,"_ she hummed, relaxing under Godric's finger, her tongue flicking out to sniff his wrist.

"This is Will-O," Salazar said. "She's my best navigator."

"Willow. That's a good name for a snake."

"Will-O as in Will O' The Wisp, not the plant." Godric's hand froze over Will-O's silver scales.

"...So you decided to name the animal responsible for your safe passage through this fen after a creature notorious for leading travelers to their doom."

"Yes," Salazar replied with - there was no other word for it - a very snake-like smile.

"You see," Godric said shakily. "It's stuff like _that_ , that particular type of twisted sense of humor, which creeps me out way more than the fact that you can talk to snakes ever could."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he said, turning back to the snake on his arm.

 _"_ _Will-O, can you lead us to the hut now?"_

 _"_ _Sure. Do I get an extra rat later?"_

 _"_ _I'll let you hunt in my room tonight, you can have all the rodents you can catch."_

 _"_ _Mmmmm. Rrrrrodents."_

-O-

The sun finally broke through the blanket of silver-grey clouds, illuminating their silver-grey-with-a-dash-of-green surroundings.

Trees towered above the carpet of mist created by the thawing of last night's frost. They extended as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far because of aforementioned mist. The chill in the air was finally abdicating, being replaced by the warm, muggy atmosphere that comes from thousands of plants rotting into nothing and evaporating. Everything was silver, everything was damp, everything had a translucent, ghost-like quality to it which gave the fen a kind of ethereal beauty.

All in all, it was a perfect mid-July morning.

"It's fucking COLD!" Godric moaned. "In what alternate universe is this supposed to be SUMMER!?"

"This one," Salazar answered plainly, turning to where Godric sat curled up shivering in a corner of the ramshackle hut.

"I grew up on a MOOR, I KNOW what cold summers are like. THIS IS NOT SUMMER."

"Oh quit whining you big baby," Salazar said, crouching next to the cauldron in the center of the packed dirt floor. " _Incendio…_ " A blazing fire flared in the wood pile underneath it. Immediately Godric was there, leaning as close to the flames as he could without burning his nose.

"Merlin bless you," he croaked. Salazar rolled his eyes.

"You're such a drama queen."

"Shut up." Godric grabbed Salazar and dragged him into his lap, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"...Godric?"

"Mmm?"

" _What_ do you think you're _doing_?"

"Hugging you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fucking COLD." Salazar sighed.

"Godric."

"Mmm?"

"Please let me go."

"No."

"I don't like being hugged."

"Don't care."

"Why do you hug me all the time anyway?"

"I hug everyone all the time. I'm just a cuddly teddy bear, not to mention an attention hog."

"Well please don't."

"Coldhearted reptile."

"Don't tease me about the snake thing."

"The snake thing is never going away." Salazar sighed.

"You're impossible."

"Don't care. Too cold to think."

"You poor thing," he deadpanned.

They sat like that for a while, searing warm and content on one side, chilly and shivering on the other. Eventually Will-O came over and wrapped herself around Salazar's neck, causing Godric to make a very dignified squeaking noise when he realized his face was less than an inch away from the serpent's nose.

"So," he asked, once recovered from the snake episode. "Do you just hang out here whenever you're not in the house?"

"I thought you said you were too cold to think?"

"That was AGES ago. Like, an entire five minutes ago."

"Uh-huh. Well, no, I only really come out here to brew potions."

"Potions? Really?"

"Well there _is_ a cauldron."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"Yes Godric, it does make sense. Why else would a cauldron that has clearly been recently used, seeing as it's not covered in rust and inhabited by wildlife, be sitting out in the middle of a fen? Because someone was using it for brewing potions."

"Oh shut up. Why do you come all the way out here to make potions?"

"Because the other boys are nosy gits who enjoy messing up my work."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because they're gits."

"They can't all be gits."

"They have to be. If they don't act git-ish then the other gits will beat them up." Godric hesitated a long while before saying,

"You're not a git."

"No, I do my best not to act like a thick-sculled jackass."

"Are you saying that they-" Godric winced at the harsh hissing noise Salazar interrupted him with. "Was that parseltongue?"

"What do you think?"

"What did you say?"

"I said that this conversation is over." Godric didn't want it to be over, he was tired of Salazar giving him hints and glimpses but never the full story. But he could tell from his roommate's tone of voice that he was not going to get anything out of him just then. So with a silent promise to himself that this conversation was _not_ over, he loosened his hold on Salazar a bit and said,

"Okay."

"Okay. Good."

"So what _do_ you do in your free time?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to formulate an idea of what my life should be looking like. I mean, if The Master doesn't actually teach us, then what do I _do_? How am I supposed to stave off complete and utter boredom?"

"Well, I personally kind of just wander around the fen."

"That's it?"

"Yep. But I've only been here a few months, and there's plenty to explore, so I haven't gotten bored yet."

"Is there any kind of training area?"

"Yeah, the inner pavilion. Why do you ask?"

"I want to stay on top of my sword-fighting skills."

"The most intense sport you'll find in the pavilion is wrestling."

"I can work with that. So, Will-O. And all the snakes you talk to, I guess. Are they like pets or are they more like friends?" And so on. They talked for ages of meaningless things. Godric asked questions, and Salazar answered, and occasionally it went vice-versa. The topic of pets turned to a dog Godric had once had, which in turn led him to recreating a funny story about said dog, a pudding, several chickens, and a very angry cook. Salazar shared his own hilarious experience about an angry cook, until the story turned serious when he was caught by the watchman, and…

They quickly changed the topic and moved on.

That was how it worked. It was rather like children playing hide and seek in someplace forbidden. Smiles and laughter until you find something that you maybe wish you hadn't, so you cover it up quickly and move on. Certain topics were automatically danced around by unspoken consent.

Family was one. Precise locations of these past events were another. Some subjects differed a bit, as one boy might be more inclined to talk about something than the other. Friends, for instance. Godric spoke fondly of the old playmates he'd tussled and quested with, while Salazar seemed to speak of other boys with a caution bordering on fear. On the other hand, he could accurately describe the places he'd been in vivid detail; from cottage to church spire, hustling marketplaces to, somewhat more frequently, back alleyways and shortcuts. Godric's details of the place he'd grown up remained misty and vague.

They talked and talked and talked, and as they talked they began to know each other better. Salazar became less guarded and snappish, and displayed an almost tender, caring side. Godric grew (if possible) even more excited and energetic, and wasn't afraid to be vulnerable. Though they didn't talk of anything important, their barriers started coming down all the same. Each began to trust the other more.

They talked and talked and talked. They talked until their legs fell asleep and their tongues became parched wads of jerky in their mouths. They talked until the sun scorched away the remaining fog and their small little campfire became a bonfire, the heat of which made them sweat despite the still nippy air, and bugs started descending in droves. They talked until their stomachs started growling and Salazar looked up at the sky and realized what time it was, and remarked that maybe they should start heading back, but inwardly cursed himself for getting attached to this boy. Because soon the gits would turn him against Salazar, and everything would be as it was before.

"Good idea," Godric replied, "I'm STARVING!"

"You're always starving Godric."

"Yeah, but I don't usually go until one thirty without eating anything!" Salazar smiled. It was a whole smile. Not a half smile. Not an almost smile. A real smile.

 _"_ _Will-O."_ She peeked her tiny silver-blue nose out of Salazar's shoulder-length locks, muttering sleepily.

 _"_ _Rodents?"_

 _"_ _Rodents,"_ Salazar confirmed. _"Back at the house. Can you lead us there?"_

 _"_ _Rrrrrodents,"_ she hummed, slithering off into the brush.

"You know," Godric remarked, slinging an arm over Salazar's shoulders as they followed her. "Once you get past the whole poisonous-fangs thing, Will-O is kind of adorable." Salazar raised an eyebrow.

"She's an adorable little thing no matter what, poisonous fangs and all."

"You think poisonous snakes are cute?" Godric asked, incredulous.

"Exactly. The same way you might find a fluffy bunny cute. You see this?" he said, holding up his hand and pointing to a small scar on the second joint of his index finger. "That's from where a bunny bit me when I was three. It's why I don't like bunnies." Godric shook his head.

"You're weird Salad Bar. In a good way."

"Why thank you. Now, do you want to eat before it's supper time?"

"YES!"

" _Then quit hugging me and walk like a normal person!_ " Godric laughed and detached his arm from his roommate's shoulder.

"Okay Sal. Race you back!"

"Careful where you step!" he shouted, chasing after the impulsive boy. Within a few minutes the sounds of their presence was gone from that place.

The creatures of the fen were sad to see them go.

-O-

Salazar lay on his bed, staring at the cobwebs clinging to the ceiling.

The Master would be downstairs, lecturing his students about the uses of doxy eggs. (Salazar wasn't with them; he'd already learned everything there was to know about doxies at least three times over, both from lessons and from personal experience.) His beady eyes would be watching, darting as he searched for weakness and confusion, for ways to manipulate these boys into his favor, to get them to do his bidding.

Godric would be with them, taking notes and soaking up facts. Oblivious to The Master's probing gaze as the old man tried to figure out how this pawn would fit in with his plans. Or maybe he was out in the hall with the other boys, already falling under their spell as they told him the truth about his roommate. Maybe they were already whispering about how that boy is a freak, a loser, a prideful no-good stuck-up fool. How he must think he's _so_ much better than them, just because he has the most raw talent and power. Because he's The Master's favorite. How Salazar Slytherin is just some mudblood wrench who came from nowhere and is going right back to the bottom where he belongs. How Godric shouldn't hang out with him, he doesn't deserve to get dragged down with that trash. He should really ask The Master to switch rooms, the old geezer would surely allow it. But he doesn't want to be prissy princess Salazar's friend, does he? If he does, he might live to regret it…

Salazar curled into a ball and gritted his teeth, shivering with suppressed emotions. Gits. They knew nothing about him. They thought their words hurt him? That their cornering him in empty rooms and knocking him around intimidated him? Well, okay, it did hurt. Pain is pain is pain, physically or psychologically. But he'd been through _so_ much worse. He'd been called worthless since before he was born, labeled as a freak since he could walk. He had so many scars, their scrapes and bruises were like hugs and kisses in comparison. The words echoed inside his head: freak, dirtwad, lowlife scum. Weak, pathetic, waste-of-air-just-go- jump-off-a-roof-already. Useless, unwanted, son-of-a-bitch, utter _failure_.

Filthy little mudblood.

They didn't know anything. They didn't know _anything_.

But still. As much as he prepared himself for it, taking Godric from him was going to hurt. Godric. The first person who didn't want to hurt him he could remember encountering in Merlin knows how long. The first person who could make him forget. The first person who could make him smile.

Footsteps thundered on the ancient floorboards outside. Salazar braced himself for the worse.

"Sal, Sal, Sal, guess what!?" Godric cried, leaning against the doorframe and panting heavily. If Salazar hadn't been facing the wall, he would have noticed Godric's split lip and his gigantic grin.

"What?" he asked glumly.

"I beat the crap out of Johnny Mc. Turd-Head!" Godric said cheerfully, in much the same way one might say: I got an extra slice of cake for dessert! Salazar rolled over and looked at him, mouth agape.

"You _WHAT_?"

"Beat the crap out of Johnny Mc. Turner," Godric panted. "You know, the big one. Looks kind of like a walking pig, or maybe a whale."

"Wait, wait, slow down. Could you tell me this story from the beginning please?" Godric limped over and plopped himself on Salazar's bed.

"So it was after class when I was walking back to our room because the lesson was let out early since Nathanael got his elbow bitten off by a doxie. And I was just walking down the corridor when this group of boys came around the corner and asked if they could have a word or two with me, and the way they said it was more of an order than a request, but I wasn't really worried. So they took me to the inner pavilion, and they asked me how I was and how I liked staying in The Master's house and they seemed friendly enough, except for some of the uglier brutes cracking their knuckles in the back of the group. But then they asked me about you and… well…" Godric glanced nervously at Salazar, who shrugged indifferently.

"I've heard what they say about me behind my back. It's almost as bad as what they say to my face." Godric winced.

"Yeah, well… They basically just called you a stuck up prick. Except, you know, worse." Salazar raised an eyebrow.

"Did they? They must not have been feeling very creative."

"Anyway, I wasn't going to just sit there and let them trash talk you, so I told them to shove off and started to storm away, except the ugly ones came after me and pinned me to a wall while the smart ones talked. And they basically tried to convert me to the Git Side, but I was like, nu-uh nitwits, and they were going to beat the crud out of me but then I called them out on what cowards they were being, and I convinced them to let me go one on one with their strongest, toughest, ugliest brute. Which turned out to be Johnny Mc. Turd-Head.

"So we got in the wrestling ring and he took his shirt off and _dude. He stank._ Seriously, I almost passed out from the smell alone! If I EVER stink like that please just kill me! It was like smelly socks and rotten eggs cooking in a stew of elephant sweat, and-"

"Godric," Salazar said. "I DON'T need details about Mc. Turner's stench." Godric grinned bashfully.

"Yeah, sorry. So anyways, I was all like, 'Geez man, was your mother a troll?' and he was like, 'No, that was my grandmother dumbass,' and I was like 'Oh… Awkwaaaaard.'

"And then he came at me!" Godric sprang off the bed and dropped into a boxer's stance, throwing jabs at an imaginary enemy. "And I dodged right, and I dodged left, and I noticed his stance was too wide so I rolled between his legs-" he did a somersault across the groaning hardwood planks, "-and came up behind him and caught him in a headlock! But then he sucker punched me in the ribs - ooph!" Godric clutched his ribs. "And then he spun and got my jaw - ack!" He reeled backwards, miming being punched in the jaw. "But I recovered and-" Salazar was grinning. He couldn't help it. Godric just looked so energetic and happy and more than a little bit crazy, trying to wrestle with nothing but empty space. "-and I lost my footing and he was on top of me! He swung at my head and I rolled, but he still got the side of my mouth - that's where I got this," he said, gingerly touching his split lip. "And he swung at me again! AUGH, MY EYE! I CAN'T SEE! YOU ROTTEN TWO-FACED SCROTUM SCUM! So I-"

"GODRIC!" Salazar shouted. "Quit rolling around on the floor!" Godric blinked, and sat up rubbing the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly.

"Sorry. I got a little carried away."

"You don't say," Salazar deadpanned. "Look, I don't need a full play-by-play narration of the entire event. I get the idea. You fought. And?"

"And I beat the crap out of him!" Godric replied, grinning proudly.

"But… But HOW!? Mc. Turner's got to be at least two times your size!"

"At MOST. Yeesh, I'm not THAT scrawny."

"I never said you were scrawny, I just meant - oh bollux. Look, Turner usually just has to belly flop on his opponents and they're down for the count. HOW?! How did you beat him?"

"I've just got better training than him," Godric said with a shrug. "His form was very rugged, all heavy punching to take your opponent out in the first five seconds. It's a common style for those who've learned to fight on the streets. But if you can alter your style so you're quick, even quicker than he is, you've got a chance. His strikes are powerful, but they take a lot of energy, and he throws everything into them and gets overbalanced if he misses. That means that after a while he slows down and his swings go wide, and that's when you can use his weight against…" Godric trailed off when he noticed Salazar looking at him, completely baffled. His cheeks colored. "Never mind," he muttered, taking a sudden interest in the floor. "It doesn't matter."

"...Since when is my roommate some kind of wrestling nerd?"

"I'm not a wrestling nerd!" Godric protested. "I just had good teachers!"

"Uh-huh." There was that fragile silence in which they both knew they were approaching a topic Godric didn't want to discuss. Salazar made a tactful decision and changed the subject without asking the obvious question: What teachers? "I take it the rest of the gits didn't appreciate you beating up their best fighter." Godric's eyes brightened, and he opened his mouth- "Do try to keep it short." He pouted.

"I am! I was just gonna say-"

"Godric. Short."

"But-"

"Keep it down to one sentence."

"ONE SENTENCE!?"

"Yes. You can do it, just use your brain."

"Stop interrupting me!" Godric thought for a minute, then said all in a rush, "The gits were clearly intimidated and were too busy picking their jaws up off the floor to do anything but back away slowly so I just told them to quit bothering me and my friend and stalked off." Godric grinned at him, clearly proud of this wince-inducing run-on sentence. "See? I can do short."

"...Your-" Salazar's throat suddenly felt very dry. He swallowed. "Your friend?"

"Of course silly! Who else is gonna put up with my craziness?"

"What craziness?" Salazar questioned with bewilderment. He'd seen plenty of craziness before. Godric was not crazy.

"You know. My... ech." He flailed his arms about as he searched for the words, as if they were flies buzzing around in the air and he could catch them if he swung randomly enough. "Crazy… Energetic… Hyperactive… Rash… Stupid, doesn't-thinkish… ME-ness!" Salazar smiled, something he hadn't expected he'd be doing for at least another week at the beginning of this conversation.

"Godric. That's just YOU."

"Yeah, but you put up with ME."

"I don't put up with you!" Salazar said, affronted. "I genuinely enjoy your company! YOU'RE the one who puts up with MY…" he hesitated. "Me-ness."

"What me-ness?" Godric asked. "You're one of the most stable, sane, _normal_ people I've ever met!" Salazar gaped at him, then succumbed to unbelieving, helpless, and more than a little hysterical laughter. "Uhh… What? It's true. Mostly."

"Godric," Sal giggled. " _I talk to bloody snakes._ "

"Yeah. So?"

"I'm antisocial, prone to excessive bouts of paranoia, and have major trust issues."

"Well I trust people way too much, so I guess I'll just do enough trusting for both of us."

"I'm not a nice person."

"You can be, when you want to be."

"When it suits my needs, yes, I can pretend to be nice."

"I think it's the other way around. I think that you are a nice person, but you're good at acting like a stuck up prick when it suits your needs, which is more often than not." Salazar shook his head.

"Think whatever you want, it won't change the fact that I have more me-ness to deal with than you ever will."

"Psht. Yeah right," Godric scoffed, while standing up and stretching his arms out. "Whelp, I'm bored. Do something." Salazar rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"Do something," he mimicked. "What am I, your servant? Your house elf? Your jester house elf?"

"Yep! Teach me something!"

"...What?"

"Well the lessons here are fairly unreliable, right? Why don't you teach me how to make a potion that doesn't blow up in my face? I'm terrible at potions. We could go back to that little hut place. Ooh, or we could just go explore. I like adventures and exploring a lot more than learning, so let's do that. We're going on an adventure!" Salazar sighed, already dreading pulling Godric out of some foolhardy and dangerous situation.

"What AM I going to do with you?"

"Take me on an ADVENTURE!" Godric cried enthusiastically. "Iiiiiiit's ADVENTURE TIME!"

"Well, there is an old abandoned mine in the middle of the fen we could check out. I don't even know why it's there, who would want to build a mine in the middle of a fen? That is SUCH a stupid idea." Godric looked at him with the wide eyes of a wowed little kid.

"Abandoned mine?" he whispered. "So. Cool. Let's go!" And with that, he was out the door with a leap and a bound. Salazar shook head despairingly, but couldn't stop smiling full force as he followed the human jack-rabbit. All in all, this conversation had gone MUCH better than he'd expected it to.

-O-

The rest of the afternoon passed relatively uneventfully. (Except for the wraith. And the Augureys. And the cave in. And the cursed pickaxes that tried to kill them.) When they returned, they ate dinner on the roof with magically warmed blankets, then took hour long baths because it had been a very long day and they were _exhausted_ after all their adventures. No one bothered Salazar when Godric was around, though the other boys did give the newest of the two wary looks. Salazar couldn't help but feel immensely satisfied - and more than a little bit smug - about this new development.

They turned in that night with a brief:

"Night Sal."

"Night Gee-Gee."

-O-

The next incident of importance occurred late the next morning, when The Master surprised them all with a lesson on useful hexes and jinxes.

"As you should well know by now," he intoned, his beard swinging like the tail of a once majestic but now shedding cat tied to the end of a pendulum as he paced back and forth. "A jinx is a more harmless version of spell than a hex, though both are associated with dark magic. Jinxes usually are used more for mischief than to actually harm one's enemy, to inconvenience instead of maim. Both jinxes and hexes are of a lesser degree of dark magic when compared to curses, _none of which_ -" he glowered, "any of you will be learning for quite some time." He resumed his pacing.

"But I digress. This contrast in degree of severity can clearly be seen with the primitive yet effective Jelly Legs Jinx when compared with the…" The Master trailed off as he noticed Godric's hand in the air. "Yes?" he snapped, peeved that his lesson was being so rudely interrupted.

"Mr. Master, Sir, I have a question."

"Yes, I was aware of that," The Master growled. "What is it?" Godric seemed entirely undaunted by both The Master's irritable tone, and the uneasy looks the other boys were giving him. He would have done well to take those looks as a warning.

"Why do you have us call you Master, Sir? Don't you have a normal name?" he asked.

Salazar felt his mouth go dry. Oh no. Godric had not gone there. The Master's real name was a forbidden topic, taboo by anyone with good enough sense not to get on his bad side. He'd stepped over the line, and would be punished for sure. _Why, Godric?_ Salazar groaned silently. _Why couldn't you just keep your big mouth shut?_

But of course, he didn't stop there. While the wizened old wizard's nostrils flared like those of a bull who'd just seen red, Godric continued to ramble on.

"I mean, you have to have a real name, right? Your mother didn't just look at her baby and say: I'm going to call my child The Master. Capital T and capital M. I've asked around, but no one seems to know it. Why not? Are you trying to hide something? Honestly, it just seems silly, having us constantly… um…" Godric finally seemed to notice the fury in his teacher's expression, and the 'How could you be so stupid?' looks his classmates were giving him. "…Er…" The Master's nostrils flared again, revealing a rather copious amount of grey, wiry nose hair, before replying in a barely restrained voice,

"If it weren't for your birthright boy, I'd whip you where you sat for such impertinence." Godric swallowed and shifted in his seat uneasily. "Let's make this clear. My name is my own business. One day, perhaps, when you have grown and gone out into the world, you will come across it of your own accord. But until that day, don't forget this: For as long as you live in my house, you follow my rules. I am your Master. And if I tell you that my name is my own business, and that you have no right to call me anything but Master it until I say so, then you'd better damn well listen! Understood!?"

"Yes Master!" the entire room chorused.

"Yes Master," Salazar muttered dully, a fraction of a second too late. The Master's eyes cut straight to him, and Salazar tried not to quiver at the look he knew too well. He shivered as he heard the voice penetrate his mental defenses, fully able to browse every thought and memory that was contained inside his head. But it didn't. Instead it simply sniped,

 _Come see me in my office when class is over._ An order, as always.

 _Yes, Master,_ Salazar thought, loud and clear enough for him to easily sense. The Master gave the telepathic equivalent of a nod, and slipped out of his mind.

The lesson went on.

Godric sat there the whole time, cowed and sullen, glaring at his teacher whenever his back was turned to scratch something out on the blackboard. Salazar couldn't believe how easy he'd gotten off, The Master was never that lenient with new students. _Or even old ones,_ he thought bitterly.

And it wasn't like The Master couldn't see the dirty looks he was receiving. That was exactly why he kept that tarnished, cracked, yet still perfectly functioning mirror on the wall behind his desk, reflecting the rest of the room. So he could keep an eye on his students at all times. And yet… he was just taking it. It was the first time Salazar had ever seen The Master put up with any form of even the slightest disrespect, ever.

He'd mentioned something about Godric's birthright… Was Godric a pureblood? That could explain it. Salazar knew The Master was an enthusiastic supporter of this new separation between pureblood and muggle-born social classes that had recently popped up during the last few decades or so. It was a movement that was slowly gaining traction as witch hunts began to occur more and more frequently, and more and more innocent people were burned in barbaric, mindless, animalistic savagery. The more muggles proved themselves to be - in some radical wizards' opinions - little more than animals driven by fear and anger who would happily tear themselves apart, the more loathing and disgust wizard-born families directed at muggle-borns.

The changes had even brought about a new name for muggle-born wizards. Those who had before been affectionately called Magbobs, treasured and special because their magic seemingly 'bobbed' up out of nowhere, were now spat at and called Mudbloods. Filthy lowborn wrenches, whose place should be where pigs dwelt and frogs burrowed.

Salazar took another look at Godric. He hadn't pinned him as the type to come from a pureblood family, much less one with connections to The Master. But then again… as much as Salazar knew him, he didn't know very much _about_ him, did he?

That was when Salazar could no longer keep himself from asking one of those questions better avoided, for the sake of secrecy and companionship sustained just a little while longer: Who the hell was Godric Gryffindor?

-O-

 _Knock knock knock._

"Enter." The door swung squeaking open and shut, as doors frequently and will forever continue to do so.

The Master's office was a kind of cross between a library and an apothecary. Shelves were stuffed with stacks of books, old leather binding worn and torn, loose pages added and taken away until the stacks resembled more of an explosion of notes than a precious collection of ancient tomes. Next to the piles were glass jars with dark, murky water and strange things floating in them. A wide variety of sinister items lined the shelves of The Master's office. A dark crystal orb, a mummified hand, a pitch black quill with a glossy, eerie, crimson sheen. Four windows interrupted the neat formation of polished wooden shelves adorning the walls, framed by dark and musty drapes. The heavy drapes were probably moth infested, and maybe had a few noxies nesting in them. Moths and doxies got along surprisingly well.

Salazar glanced at the glazed pane facing north. There, he knew, if he poked his head out and looked straight down diagonally, he would see a small little niche where three walls came together underneath a small overhang sheltered from most wind and rain. Salazar often tried not to think of what might happen if one day The Master opened this particular window in his office, and did exactly that.

The Master himself stood on the other side of his desk with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the west window at the fen abroad. He was enveloped in long, black, stately robes, neatly cut and of fine material. A silk ribbon patterned with silver moons and stars trimmed the sleeves.

He turned, scowled at Salazar, and did not ask him to sit.

"Have you had time to reflect upon how you might improve since our last session?" Salazar nodded.

"Yes, Master." He had reflected plenty. And he'd reached the conclusion that he couldn't improve at all. What The Master asked of him might have been possible for any other student, with practice and concentration. But for Salazar? It didn't matter how powerful or disciplined he was; this task seemed as impossible as reaching the stars themselves.

The Master gave a curt nod, and drew a thin, flexible stick about a yard long from behind his desk. "Then we shall begin. I want you to close your eyes." Salazar did so, regulating his breathing, trying to calm his racing pulse. Anxious over what was to come. His primal instincts were still automatically fighting, trying to find a way to succeed, a way out. But Salazar's rational mind knew there was none. He would just have to wait it out, as he had his whole damned pointless, miserable life.

"Now imagine something happy. Something that fills you with the most excessive, exuberant of joys. It should be something that brings a smile to your face just to recall." Not even the barest hint of a smile graced Salazar's lips. "Let this joy fill you up. Amplify it, allow it to grow without ceasing until it flows through your every nerve and pore and drop of blood in your veins. Allow yourself to exist, for just a moment, in the glow of this happiness remembered." There was a pause, as The Master waited expectantly. "When you're ready," he whispered.

…

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

…Nothing.

CRACK. Salazar winced as the stick stung through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You are not. Trying. Hard enough," The Master said softly. "That was too quick. You were not ready. You didn't allow yourself to fully establish the connection with your emotions. And volume has nothing to do with it! You can bellow the words as much as you like, but it won't work if you aren't prepared." Salazar gritted his teeth.

"I _can't_." CRACK.

"You can. Do you really think I'm underestimating your abilities? I know your power Salazar. It's sleeping. You used to stamp down on it every day of your life, bind it with chains so it wouldn't let loose with all its suppressed fury. But now you can't seem to lose those chains! Can you imagine how frustrating that is for me? You are perfectly capable of producing a fully corporeal Patronus Salazar. None of the others are, but you can."

"You don't understand!" Salazar shouted. "I DON'T HAVE ANY HAPPY MEMORIES!"

CRACK!

Salazar winced, and touched his cheek. It was bleeding, just beneath the eye. _…He went for my face,_ he thought. _That's new._

"You will not raise your voice to me again Salazar," The Master hissed. "If you can't think of any happy memories, _then make something up!_ Again!" Salazar sucked in a breath, and raised his wand. He would try. He could at least try.

He thought back to when he was young, his innocence was still mostly intact, and his mother was still alive. She was sober that day, and had baked him cookies for some strange reason. Cookies make everyone happy, right?

"Expecto Patronum!"

CRACK. No, that hadn't been the right memory. He'd taken those cookies with suspicion, wondering what kind of trick his mother was pulling now, whether she'd hidden some sort of poison that would make him sick for days if he wasn't careful, or worse. All while his mother had smiled sweetly down at him.

There hadn't been anything in those cookies after all. But the suspicion had still been there.

"Again." The first time he'd used magic then?

"Expecto Patronum!"

CRACK.

"Again." His first conversation with a snake? No, wait-

"Expecto Patronum!"

CRACK. Both of those memories were tainted. Tainted with the stares and whispers and hurts he'd gotten soon after.

"Again." Well, he could definitely skip over after his mother died. Those years had been hell. He tried to think of one good thing, one happy memory from that time period. The smell of baking bread? That relieved feeling of a good meal, of beginning to approach a satisfied stomach?

"Expecto Patronum!"

CRACK.

"Again!" No, no, no. The hunger was still there, even as it finally lapsed, it was still there. It was always there, until he came to The Master's house… What was good about staying here? Knowledge. Learning to defend himself so that one day, others would be suffering at the wrath of the stick in his hand. Never the other way around.

"Expecto Patronum!" But the feeling of learning a new spell-

CRACK. –was just satisfaction. Not happiness.

"Again, Salazar! You're not putting enough effort into this!"

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder!"

CRACK. Salazar breathed, unclenched his fists, and opened his eyes.

"Don't you think you're making it a little bit difficult for me to be happy with you lashing me every time I fail?" The Master sneered at him, as though he was merely a foolish child.

"I am raising the stakes. In real life, if you find yourself up against a Dementor, or in any need of a Patronus, you might find yourself in pain much worse than this. You need to learn to concentrate through pain. Accomplish this, and it will make you stronger." Salazar nodded grimly and closed his eyes again. It was pointless to argue.

But then, in a fit of daring, he turned and said,

"What's _your_ happy memory?" The Master appeared taken aback, for once.

"What?"

"What do you use to summon your Patronus? Because I haven't the faintest idea where I'm supposed to start."

CRACK.

"None of your business boy," The Master snarled. "Again!" Salazar resisted the urge to scream with frustration, and closed his eyes once more.

He thought. Really thought this time. He couldn't find anything in his past that made him happy. So perhaps closer to his present… He could feel The Master twitching, the stick jerking in his hand as he grew impatient. Salazar held up his wand,

"Wait." Surprisingly, he did.

There. Just yesterday, dashing out of the mine into near twilight, a cloud of dust and grit rising from the cave-in they'd just barely escaped. Godric had started laughing as soon as he'd gotten his breath back.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!?" Salazar had screamed. But Godric had just caught his hands and twirled him around, leaping and bounding with hazel eyes dancing, laughing with the pure joy of being alive. Salazar had laughed with him. He'd laughed and felt that glee of escaping unscathed, every sense in hyperawareness because any moment might be his last and he had to feel _everything_ he could, as much as possible, in order to truly live. Laughing at the sheer joy of what a gift life was, and of sharing a moment with someone who cared for once, of collapsing exhausted onto tall, prickly grass and gazing up at a purple sky.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

…Silence.

Salazar opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a writhing mass of silvery mist. The mist glowed brilliantly, then faded and began to dissipate.

He'd done it.

 _He'd done it._

He grinned, and let out a short, stuttering laugh, more exhaled breath than anything else. He turned to his tutor, glowing with victory, but then his smile fell. There was barely the merest hint of approval in The Master's expression. No kindness. No pride of a teacher pleased with his student.

"Better," he admitted grudgingly, bending his long, lithe stick like a fencer might bend a practice foil. "Again." Salazar turned away, and decided that he was done trying for tonight. If his best wasn't good enough…

"Expecto Patronum!"

CRACK.

-O-

Several hours later, a weary boy trudged down the moaning stairs, eager for the day to be over. Eager for the release of sleep. Eager for his scabbed cuts and range of bruises that had only just begun to fade, now accessorized with angry red welts, to stop aching. Hoping for the peaceful forgetfulness of dreamless rest.

No dreams. No nightmares. Please no nightmares.

But nightmares don't listen to please.

He hesitated outside of his door. He didn't want Godric to see him like this. So he pulled his hair out of his ponytail and combed it forward the cover the cut on his cheek, and unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them down to his wrists. That would have to do for now. He pushed open the door.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?" Godric bolted from his bed where he'd been staring out the small round window and crossed the room to stand in front of the doorway. "I've been sneaking around this place looking for you for the last three hours! I thought the gits had gotten you!" Salazar gave him a weak smile.

"No, don't worry Godric. I'm fine." Godric gave him a meticulous look.

"You don't look fine." Salazar pushed past him and made for his bed, trying not to hurry his steps.

"It was just a tutoring session with The Master." He sank under his covers and buried his face in his pillow with a sigh. Safe. "He gives me independent lessons sometimes." Godric smiled at him.

"I feel for you. That guy's a complete arsehole." Salazar snorted. "Well he is! I honestly don't think I could spend more than an hour with him lecturing me about what a failure I am without punching him in the face."

"Believe me, it was a _very_ hard impulse to resist…"

"…Sal?"

"Hm?" Godric placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're alright?" No.

"I'm fine Godric. I'm just tired." Godric's mouth pulled away from that worried frown and lifted up in a soft smile.

"Okay then." He brushed a lock of hair away from Salazar's forehead before leaning over and blowing out the light. Salazar tried to think of the last time he'd been giving such an affectionate gesture… Not since his mother died. And he'd gotten the impression that she'd only done that because she felt she had to. Maybe as a way to overcompensate for all her other mistakes. "Night Sal."

"G'night Gee Gee." Soon Salazar was fast asleep.

Unfortunately, as privileged as he'd been to escape nightmares thus far since Godric's arrival, he couldn't ward them off forever. He would soon find that they were coming for him tonight.

 _Please? Pretty pretty please?_

 _NO!_

-O-

Salazar awoke in the middle of the night as he usually did, sweating and sobbing and screaming. But something was new. Godric's panicked voice as he shook him awake.

"Sal! Sal, Sal wake up! It's just a dream!" Salazar curled in on himself, shaking. It hadn't _felt_ like a dream. He could still feel traces of ash in his throat, his hair. He could still feel sparks stinging his eyes and his lips cracking from the heat. He could still feel the soft sensation of all that remained of his mother's flesh, carried to him by the accusing wind, dusting his skin.

Godric put his arms around him, causing his new injuries to throb. But Salazar leaned back into the hug, for once glad for the physical contact. The reassurance that he was forgiven.

"Do you get nightmares often?" Godric whispered.

"Every night before you came." Salazar's voice was hoarse and dry, whether from lack of sleep or – no, it couldn't be from heat. It couldn't be from screaming until it seemed like his throat would bleed.

"Here, let me light a candle." It took Salazar a moment to register Godric's words. When he did, his eyes flew open in panic.

"No!" he cried. "Don't-" A match flared. "-do that…" Salazar swallowed, and curled back into a ball, hiding his shame behind his lack of eye contact and a curtain of hair.

"…Sal?" Godric pushed the sleeve of Salazar's shirt back to his elbow, exposing welts, scars, bruises and all. "What's this?"

"Don't touch me."

"Is it like this everywhere?"

"Go away. I don't want to talk about it." Godric wordlessly started tugging Sal's shirt off, and his eyes prickled. Because he'd hidden it for so long, since no one cared, and now-

Godric inhaled sharply.

Sal knew what he was looking at. Not just the new injuries, but the old ones as well. He knew his back was mottled silver and red from every whipping and beating that had sliced his skin open and made it ooze red juice like an overcooked cranberry. He knew the jaws of a dog still trapped his right forearm in tiny white tooth marks. Another, similar bite mark marred his leg. He knew about the thin white line at the base of his throat from a mugger's knife misplaced. His skin was so pale it was almost invisible in the daytime, without candlelight to reflect it. He knew about the large round puncture wound that went all the way through the side of his lower back to exit his stomach. He'd been lucky not to bleed out from acquiring that wound. He knew every little cut and mark on his body, new and old, even if he couldn't see them. He knew he was thin, his ribs still visible. But at least he wasn't practically a skeleton, his stomach shriveled from hunger as it had been three months ago. After three months of regular meals, he was still only just starting to fill in...

He knew Godric's eye must be drawn to the big capital M branded into his right shoulder blade.

Sometimes, it was that memory that haunted him at night, the scent of searing flesh coming from behind instead of ahead, blazing pain replacing the ash.

"Oh Merlin… Sal…" Godric traced the brand with his fingers, and Salazar trembled. It hurt. Not physically, but... "What happened?"

"I happened," he said in a broken voice. "They happened. Life happened. Everything happened." Water leaked from the corner of his eyes, and he quickly scrubbed it away. Why couldn't he stop shaking?

Godric hugged him again, more gently this time, his arms barely there in their mindfulness of his new bruises. Sal clutched at his hair, and did his best to keep the sobs threatening to break out of his chest silent.

"Did The Master do this to you?" He knew this was the point where he was supposed to lie.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To make me stronger."

"How could this possibly make you stronger?"

"I don't know. That's just what he thinks. He was trying to teach me the Patronus charm, and every time I failed, he'd hit me. And I couldn't think of any happy memories at all. Until… I thought of you and the mine incident yesterday. And it worked. Kind of. I was able to summon a vague, hazy mist." Godric shook his head.

"That's amazing. You're only, what, thirteen?"

"Excuse me!?" Salazar said, affronted. "I'll have you know I'm fourteen! I'm turning fifteen this autumn!"

"Ha." Godric grinned. "I'm older. I turned fifteen last week." Salazar sighed.

"Damn it all, I'm always the youngest."

"But that's still amazing. No wizard I know of could summon an incorporeal Patronus when they were fourteen. Most of them can't even summon their Patronus at all." Godric's tone turned from wonderment to anger. "What the hell does he think he's doing? You're just fourteen, he shouldn't be treating you like this for failing to master a spell far above your abilities!"

"He seems to think it's within my ability," Salazar muttered.

"Do you think it is?"

"…No." Godric made a small growling sound.

"Arsehole. Where were you the rest of this afternoon?"

"Cleaning out the basement for my failures."

"…I heard some of the gits talking about the basement."

"It's not so scary."

"They said there are rats."

"There are, but I'd be a pretty pathetic excuse of a wizard if I couldn't ward off a few pesky rats."

"They said the rats were bigger than a pair of shoes."

"Yes. So?"

"They said there's no light down there whatsoever."

"What do you think _Lumos_ is for?"

"They said there are plenty of cursed objects that can take off a few fingers or make your tongue rot out if you accidentally pick them up."

"You just have to be careful." Godric made that growling noise again.

"For Merlin's sake Sal! You deserve better than this!"

"It's more than what I used to have. At least I get fed every day."

"Oh yeah? Did you eat lunch today?"

"...No." Godric let go of him and started pacing the room, muttering to himself and running a hand through his erratic hair. "I bet you could do it," Salazar mumbled.

"Do what?"

"Summon a Patronus. It's not that hard, in principle. You just need to find something that makes you happy. And you always seem so happy…" Godric looked at him, then nodded, as if deciding something. He knelt down and dragged a bag out from under his bed.

"We're leaving."

"What?"

"We're both getting the hell out of this house," he said, stuffing spare clothes into the bag.

"But…" Salazar shifted around so he was sitting on the edge of his bed, instead of curled up on top of it. "Where would we go?"

"It doesn't matter," Godric growled. "Anywhere but here."

"…It's not really that bad Godric. Where else would I learn how to use magic?"

"We'll find you a different teacher! Someone who doesn't treat you like a punching bag!"

"…This is a stupid idea!" Salazar snapped. "How do you expect to pay for meals or beds at an inn?" Godric hesitated, then dug around under his bed some more (he had to move his long sword out of the way, that thing took up a lot of room.) before dragging out a large leather pouch that clinked merrily. He tossed it into Salazar's lap. Sal's eyes widened as he opened the pouch and found himself gazing at more money than he had ever seen in his life, in both wizard and muggle currencies.

"…Godric, how did you-"

"Don't ask," Godric said stiffly. Salazar hesitated, then nodded.

"Look," he said softly. "I get that you're trying to help me. I appreciate that. But you don't understand, I'm not strong like you. I can't fight. The only way I can defend myself is with the one thing I'm good at. And that's magic." Godric knelt in front of his roommate and tilted Salazar's chin to look directly at him.

"Sal, I _can_ understand wanting to be stronger. Wanting to learn to protect yourself. But you shouldn't stay here if the price for that knowledge is pain. And if you're staying here because you're scared of getting hurt by what's out there in the world, then, don't be. I'll protect you. I promise." Salazar's eyes prickled with tears again. When had he ever heard those words before? _I'll protect you._

"You can't promise that."

"I can promise I'll try. I won't let anything or anyone hurt you ever again Sal. You've had more than your share of pain. I'll do all I can to stop you from feeling any more."

"You…" His voice was choked with emotion. "How did you get to be so kind?" Godric hugged him again, and Salazar could no longer stop fourteen years worth of tears from spilling down his cheeks.

"Shhh," Godric muttered. "It's okay. You have a lot to learn about kindness. What it's like to receive it. How to give it back. But that's okay. I'll teach you. And I won't let them hurt you. Never again. Never, ever, ever again. I promise."

And so, bound by that promise, from that day on Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin were inseparable.


End file.
